


One Man's Island

by suitesamba



Series: Moment of Impact [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Retelling, Drama, Family, mentor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Man's Island is part three of the five-part "Moment of Impact" Series, originally posted (and still posted in full) on the fanfiction dot net site. Part three is 7th year at Hogwarts, told from Severus' perspective as he takes on his Headmaster duties and watches Harry from afar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 1997

Chapter 1: August, 1997

Two months to the day after fleeing Hogwarts in the dead of night, leaving Dumbledore’s body at the foot of the Astronomy Tower, Severus Snape returned. The man now hailed by some and reviled by many for murdering Albus Dumbledore, stepped through the front gates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in broad daylight after Apparating from a meeting at the Ministry to officially appoint him Headmaster, an appointment which would be kept out of the newspapers until September 1st. He was dressed in black robes much finer than his usual garb and wore a new pair of softly tanned black dragonhide boots. They felt odd on his feet, not yet at home. His hair was tied back at the nape of his neck. He carried nothing but his wand which he held casually yet confidently, at the ready.

While his appointment had not been officially announced, the Dark Lord has already ordered the Board of Governors disbanded and had added two new professors to his staff—Alecto and Amycus Carrow. One would replace him as Dark Arts instructor—no use in pretending there would be any defense involved—and the other would take the late Charity Burbage’s classes. He pushed away the image of Charity suspended over the banquet table in the formal dining room at Malfoy Manor and focused instead on the Carrows. Severus doubted either could actually read or write, but knew that this year, that mattered little. Term would begin in three weeks, but, with the exclusion of the Muggle-borns and others of questionable blood purity, as well as those who had simply fled, the Hogwarts dorms would be barely half-full.

Severus resolutely did not look at the white marble tomb by the lakeside as he walked purposefully past the Quidditch Pitch and up the hill toward the castle’s entrance. But in seeking so deliberately to avoid the tomb, his gaze fell on the stretch of ground where Harry had faced him, where he had disarmed the boy, where he had left him, abandoned him, face in the dirt, begging him not to leave.

He hadn’t seen Harry for two months.

It was slowly killing him.

The agony was long, drawn out, deeply rooted and utterly unexpected. It ate at him from the inside out, chewing on his gut, rolling around in his stomach, making him agitated, restless, angry. It was easy to act his part when nothing satisfied him, when there were no letters arriving on homework scrolls, no questions to answer, no stories of Lily to tell. He had gotten rid of Draco quickly, leaving him at Malfoy Manor with his family to face the Dark Lord’s wrath, but every time he saw him, now forced to serve as menial errand boy to the Dark Lord himself, he was reminded more of what he had left behind.

Mingled with the pressing loss and incessant worry was the rising tide of responsibility for the other thing he had ended that night.

He didn’t feel regret for it, not exactly, and not remorse either. Dumbledore had pulled that promise from him months ago—to do the murder himself when the time came, to prevent Draco from becoming a murderer too. If there were any regret at all, it was for not better preparing Harry for the inevitability of their separation, or for not ending Albus’ suffering earlier, before it came down to a showdown on the tower, an answer to Albus’ silent but resounding, echoing pleas to end it now.

Instead of regret, Severus felt a weighty sense of responsibility for Albus’ death and for the avalanche of events that followed it. 

That, even though events had played out almost exactly as Albus had wanted them to. He would never have been able to conduct and execute the sequence of events any better had he been left alive with a wand in his hand and all of the invincible power of a mighty puppet-master holding a complex web of strings.

Severus picked up his pace, putting on a mantle of aloof neutrality as he made the final approach to the castle and climbed the stairs. Nothing moved at Hogwarts on this oddly warm, bitterly sunny August day. Hagrid’s cabin was quiet—no smoke rose from the chimney, no dog barked a greeting from the garden. The pennants above the great castle doors hardly moved in the still air and not even a ghost of a sound reached his ears from the castle within.

Harry’s clock had rested on “Somewhere Safe” all of July but had bounced erratically from “Traveling” to “In Trouble” to “Mortal Peril” to “Somewhere Safe” since then. Severus had been holed up at Spinner’s End on August 1st, the day the Ministry fell, deliberately removed from the fray by the Dark Lord, kept safely out of sight until Hogwarts was his. The clock had moved from “In Trouble” to “Mortal Peril” that day and had remained there for several hours before returning to “In Trouble.” Severus had known of the planned murder of Scrimgeour. He learned that night that Scrimgeour had revealed the location of Harry Potter before he died and, along with the other senior Death Eaters, had suffered the Dark Lord’s rage at their failure at capturing Harry at the ensuing raid on the wedding. He wondered how much Harry had suffered his torture as well.

The Doctors Granger had disappeared. He had stolen out to London himself to see about Miss Granger’s whereabouts following the fall of the Ministry. He knew that the raid on Privet Drive on Harry’s birthday had turned up nothing and that the Dursleys were not in residence when the wards fell at midnight. Somehow the remnants of the Order of the Phoenix had managed to warn them. Severus was oddly grateful for that, but could not understand, for the life of him, why. He supposed it was because Harry would feel responsible for their deaths too, and he preferred them alive if it alleviated a small part of Harry’s mental anguish.

Today, no one challenged him as he entered Hogwarts. He knew Filch was here somewhere at least, and probably Hagrid.

The entrance hall was eerily quiet. He glanced up at the jewel-filled hourglasses that tallied the house points. They had not been cleared yet from the previous school year. It looked to him like Gryffindor might have won the cup, had there been a cup awarded. Only the headmaster could turn the glasses to reset the points for a new year. He wondered at that, but did not attempt it. He had something else to do first.

He quietly made his way up the great marble stairs. His footsteps echoed in the utter silence of the castle, and it sounded as if three men were ascending the stairs, the other two on phantom, parallel stairways. He forced himself not to look behind him or to the side.

He kept walking, face forward, until he reached Albus’ office. 

His office.

The gargoyle, oddly, asked him to set a password. He cocked his head and stared at it a moment, thinking.

“Bring him home,” he said, the words tight, terse. He could change it later, to something innocuous or dark, when it became necessary for others to visit him here.

Up the spiral staircase until he stood briefly before the door. He placed one hand on the ancient wood, the other on the crystal handle, owning the door, feeling its ancient life, then turned the knob, pushed open the door and stepped into the office.

He’d been dreading this moment, though he executed it perfectly. Albus’ portrait hung behind the desk, exactly as Albus had said it would, and the subject of the portrait stood upon seeing him.

“Headmaster,” it said in greeting. The voice of Albus Dumbledore was recognizable, though it lacked the depth and power it had carried in life. Severus froze for a moment, spinning backward in time, remembering the last words of the great man standing so small before him now. Severus…please…

“Where is he, Albus?” Severus strode over to the portrait, ignoring the office which would, in the coming months, become his island in a tempestuous sea. 

Albus did not look one bit put out at playing second fiddle today to Harry Potter. Instead, he seemed rather pleased. How could eyes _twinkle_ like that when they were nothing but memories behind magical paint?

“You do have your clock…?”

“The house elf brought it to me, yes,” answered Severus. “It is…vague…” His eyes narrowed, staring at the painted rendering of the old headmaster, taking in the vibrant blue of his eyes, the brilliant turquoise and gold of his star-studded robes. Severus swept his gaze around the room, looking swiftly at the other portraits. All of them—all that were in their frames, at least—were studying him unabashedly. He was accustomed to seeing most of them dozing in their frames in his frequent visits to this very room. Odd.

“Where is he, Albus?” Severus shifted his focus back on the former headmaster and repeated his original question. “He is no longer with Bill Weasley. Grimmauld Place is being watched—there has been no movement there. And he is no longer at the Burrow.” 

“It must be enough for now to know he is safe, Severus,” said Dumbledore. “You knew this time would come—when he would have to forge his own way. He is well prepared, Severus. You yourself have seen to this. And he does have his friends—yes?”

Severus nodded shortly and let his gaze move to the window. He looked out over the lake, to the rocky shore where Harry had once stood working out his anger, hurling rocks in the water, not so many long weeks ago. He recalled, then, that he had stood beside Albus watching that scene play out and felt keenly alone in this moment.

“I have verified that the Grangers are gone—their London home and practice are closed up. The Burrow is being watched—Harry and his friends have not been seen there. Miss Weasley is there, however. She has been seen in Diagon Alley as well, accompanying her mother.” 

“Then all indications point to Harry being in hiding with Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley. Severus, does it matter where he is? Is it not better to know only that he is safe?” Albus’ eerily alive animated eyes met Severus’ and held them.

Finally, Severus conceded with a nod. “It is better,” he admitted, his voice betraying the bitterness he felt at that admission. He turned away, shoulders tense, eyes scanning the shelves, the walls, the cabinets of this office, his office, then swiveled back, angry again. “But it is _killing_ me, Albus. It is eating away at me…devouring me from the inside. This… _need_ …” His voice faltered, died. He turned away again, exasperated, not knowing how to express this foreign feeling, this all consuming worry mixed with heart-wrenching fear.

“I cannot take that away from you, Severus, nor would I want to,” came Albus’ somewhat one-dimensional voice from behind him. “I have long understood that Harry’s capacity for this—for _love_ —would set him apart from Voldemort and give him the crucial edge that he needs. What I did not understand, perhaps not until this very moment, is that he would change you, too, and find in you not only an ally in this effort, a champion if you will, but a mentor and a father as well. Sadly, Severus, I have never been a father and can understand the feeling only… academically.”

Severus turned and stared at Albus’ portrait as it spoke, only half listening, the feeling in his stomach warring between empty and too full, his heart clenching as he suddenly understood what it would feel like to have this new piece of his life removed. It would be like a bird floundering with an injured wing as it attempted to land in a high tree, crashing through the branches in near free-fall, unable to gain purchase, to right itself.

“You are his champion, Severus,” continued Albus, his papery voice soft as he sat back down in the painted chair behind his painted desk—Severus’ chair now, Severus’ desk. “Hogwarts is his goal. It will happen here; it must happen here—for Hogwarts is the center of it all. Tom will expect Harry to come to Hogwarts and Harry will be drawn here. He will return here to face Tom, and you, Severus, you must protect Hogwarts. It is your kingdom now, your island. You must protect its resources—the students under your care—by making it appear impenetrable from the outside while at the same time finding its Achilles heel, the weak spot Harry can exploit when the time comes.”

“You ask too much of me,” said Severus. His voice had a note of resignation in it, and of desperation. “You know what Hogwarts is to the Dark Lord. It is more important to him than the Ministry itself. He will not allow…”

“He will when his attention is focused elsewhere,” interrupted the portrait. “And while Harry and his friends are out there, on this quest, Tom’s eye will be turned outward as well.”

“It is Harry’s quest now, then,” commented Severus. The words of the old tune ran through his head, no longer a private game between himself and the headmaster. Cervante’s words from Don Quixote’s mouth. _To be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause…_

“He is willing, Severus,” portrait Albus said, very quietly. 

“It is supposed to be _me!”_ exclaimed Severus, pounding his fist on the desk between himself and the portrait. “ _Me_ who is torn and covered in scars. Not him.” He sank into one of the two chairs behind him, the visitor’s chairs facing the headmaster’s desk. “Not him. Not Harry.”

“Severus…”

“Harry cannot come here,” said Severus, standing again, walking purposefully around the desk and standing, impenetrable himself, before the imposing portrait. 

“Harry must come here,” countered Albus, his crinkly portrait eyes and papery portrait voice softening as he regarded the man before him. “Harry _will_ come here, Severus. When he has completed his task. When he knows the time is right. And you must be the sentinel on the bridge until that time. You must watch the ocean water beating the rocks below you and the wind rushing above you. You must watch the gulls that fly overhead and the fish that swim below and the land creatures that attempt to swim the gap.”

“Is that all?” quipped Severus. He placed one hand on each side of the portrait, against the smooth stone wall, facing Albus eye to eye.

“No,” answered Albus. He sighed and stretched out a hand, ineffectively seeking to give comfort to the hopeless. “You must also do it in such a way that Voldemort believes you to be the gatekeeper of an impregnable, sealed fortress while Harry, in turn, knows you hold the keys to the kingdom.”

Severus stared at Albus for a long time before nodding once then spinning on the polished stones of the tower floor on the heel of his new dragonhide boots and silently leaving the office through the door behind the desk that led to the Headmaster’s personal study on the tower floor above. He heard the headmaster’s oddly flat voice singing as the door began to close behind him, but he did not go back.

“To run where the brave dare not go…”

/

On August 22nd, the new Headmaster met with the Heads of House.

Separately.

Horace was the easiest, and the first. He had been virtually bullied into staying on another year by the “new” Ministry. He understood Slytherin tactics, and he understood Severus Snape. In Horace’s mind, Severus was one of Voldemort’s right-hand men, someone not to be trifled with. Slytherin House would be the fullest of the houses this year; Slytherin students would be the most compliant. Both the Head Boy and Head Girl would be Slytherins—Zabini and Parkinson. Horace was spineless, and relatively harmless. Horace would toe the line because what motivated Horace above all else was self-preservation. 

Then Pomona. They had been colleagues for years, and had enjoyed a peaceful, reciprocal relationship due to the interconnectivity of their disciplines. She, too, had laid down the “retirement” card and had been “encouraged” by the Ministry to stay on at Hogwarts. He took a hard line with her though he did not expect blatant resistance from her or from any of the Hufflepuffs. His voice slid out of him like an oiled weapon, low and dangerous. He spouted the packaged phrases he had been given—“the original intent of the four founders” and “the same foundation, with a new interpretation.” When Pomona Sprout left the new headmaster’s office, she believed Severus Snape was Voldemort’s figurehead and was not her friend.

He had been closer to Filius; he had played chess with him occasionally and had shared a drink or two over the years. Filius had not approached the Ministry about retirement as Horace and Pomona had. He was staying, Severus understood, for the same reasons Minerva was—to protect his students. There would be plenty of Ravenclaws remaining at Hogwarts. The conversation with Filius followed the same vein as Pomona’s had. But Filius, unlike Pomona, looked Severus in the eye when he spoke and though he did not question Severus, or his motivations, there was something in his eye that disquieted Severus, perhaps only a vague notion, an attitude of doubt, but Severus decided to watch it carefully and to watch himself especially closely when around Filius Flitwick.

Finally it was time for Minerva.

She was last by design. His superiors believed she would be the one he would have to come down on hardest but still they wanted her at Hogwarts, a symbol for all that nothing had changed, not really. The Gryffindors would be hard hit by the “drop” in enrollment, and, he knew, by the absence of Harry, Hermione and Ron. They would be the most defiant, the most rebellious, subject to the most punishments and detentions. He had been instructed to take a “zero tolerance” approach with discipline this year and the Carrows were already devising new methods of which he was sure Filch would approve.

Minerva was also last by choice. She already knew his secrets and his true loyalties. He could cover his “Hogwarts” material with her in a quarter hour. The rest of the time would be spent in other…pursuits.

She came to the door not ten minutes after Filius had departed, rapping sharply then letting herself in, sitting primly in the chair before his desk, staring silently at him with piercing cool eyes. He stood and extracted his wand, waved it to produce an incredibly strong _Muffliato_ then walked over to the door and tapped it lightly, producing another non-verbal spell to lock the door and ward it. He took several steps toward her, then stopped, checked himself, managed to speak in a strong voice that ultimately betrayed him, cracking on the last word he uttered.

“Where is my son?”

He knew, by her reaction, that she had doubted him. He did not care. He had doubted himself at times. The hard look on her tired face melted away. The face before him was still old, and tired, but softer, careworn, the Minerva he had grown to regard as nearly family this past year.

“He is at Grimmauld Place,” she replied, watching him carefully. “Remus saw him there not two weeks ago.”

Relief washed over Severus’ face, but a relief that was short-lived. “Grimmauld Place is being watched round the clock, Minerva!” he protested. “There are at least two guards, front and back, twenty-four hours a day!”

“They are aware of the guard, Severus.” She reached into a robe pocket and pulled out a copy of _The Daily Prophet._ “You saw this today?” He shook his head. “Miss Granger is now on the wanted list. I rather think she’ll become ‘Undesirable Number 2’ very soon.”

He glanced at the article she indicated, scanning the list of names. Names of students who would not be attending Hogwarts this year. Hermione Granger was indeed on the list. He shook his head.

“The wedding,” he said, changing the subject. “Scrimgeor revealed Harry’s location before he was killed but they did not find him. Was Harry there?”

“There was warning,” she answered, keeping her eye on Severus’ strained face and accepting the sudden change of subject. “From Kingsley—but only a minute or so. Harry was there—under Polyjuice. He, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger all disappeared—apparently Apparated straight out to Grimmauld Place.”

“You speak to the Weasleys?” he asked. “To Arthur and Molly?” He waited for her nod. “I would like news then, of anything you hear, as soon as you hear it.”

“Severus, of course,” answered Minerva, smiling a curious half-smile. “The problem is…the children simply aren’t communicating with them. It’s too dangerous. We only know what we do because Remus dared to go over there. And quite a tongue lashing he got as well…from your son, mind you.” 

Severus raised his eyebrows. “From Harry? That isn’t like him…”

Minerva sighed. “Apparently, Remus wanted to join them—to help them out. He claimed that marrying Tonks had been a mistake. Harry sent him packing—told him to go back to his wife. He felt quite strongly about Remus abandoning his family. Remus is quite remorseful now, but it has apparently but a wedge between them.” She paused, adding. “Tonks is pregnant; Remus proposed abandoning both of them.’

“Harry would feel strongly about that,” said Severus, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “You haven’t spoken with him, then? Or seen him?” He looked up, hopeful.

“I saw him once in July, Severus. At Shell Cottage. He and Bill spent a month there together before the wedding.” She paused, considering her next words. “He misses you, Severus. But he is resigned to this quest of his and does not want to put you in any danger.” She paused again. “He is growing up, Severus. Those last days here in June—they were hard on him. Hard on us all. The Order is split—some are of the belief that you are the vilest of Death Eaters; others trust in you as Dumbledore did and will closely watch how this year plays out at Hogwarts. But all are lying low…”

“As they should,” interrupted Severus. He approached Minerva and paused before her. She remained seated, looking upward at him and he realized how imposing he must seem, how odd he must look to her with his new robes and boots and tied-back, groomed hair. He sighed and, in a move so unlike him that he wondered at what he was becoming, crouched on the floor beside her, took her wrinkled hands in his own. “As you should, too. You must toe the line, Minerva, as difficult as this year will prove to be. And your Gryffindors, too. I will do what I can, but I cannot appear in any way, shape or form to be anything but what I am supposed to be—a Death Eater, the Dark Lord’s chosen replacement for Albus. The children must believe it, and they will not if you do not.”

“Those that return,” she sighed. “I am not expecting many.”

“Half,” he replied. “At best.” He paused, then continued, his voice carefully even. “There is something you should know, Minerva. Charity Burbage is dead.”

Minerva pressed her lips together. She and Charity had been friends. She gripped Severus’ hands, her voice shaking just a bit as she answered. “I assume, then, that Muggle Studies is off the new curriculum?”

Severus stood, gently dropping her hands. “No. It will be taught—unfortunately. By Alecto Carrow.”

“Alecto Carrow!” Minerva got to her feet at once, defiant. “Severus—she is a known _killer_ of Muggles! How _could_ you, Severus?”

“Welcome to the new Hogwarts, Minerva,” said Severus resignedly as he sat down behind his desk. He dropped his head into his hands then and Minerva stood and walked around the desk to stand behind him, glancing at Albus’ portrait as she passed, but not stopping to greet him. She squeezed Severus’ shoulder once, very tightly, then rubbed the hard knot between his shoulders but did not say another word.

/

On August 31st, the Ministry’s guard on Grimmauld Place was tripled. Severus privately scoffed. Did anyone really believe that Harry Potter and his friends would come out of hiding to board the Hogwarts Express and try to carry on with a seventh year at Hogwarts?

As the day drew down into evening, Severus himself was called out to stand guard duty. 

He Apparated directly into the derelict square in front of Numbers 11 and 13 and pretended he could _not_ see #12 as plain as day before his face, pretended instead to be looking at that faint line of demarcation between #11 and #13 where #12 did not quite exist.

He had expected to be called in here, before the end. He’d come here just after Albus died, at the behest of the Dark Lord, and had returned the news to him that the house was under a new Fidelius charm. That of course, was untrue. The house was under the same Fidelius charm as always but with Albus dead, each person under the original Fidelius was a secret keeper himself or herself. Including Severus. Had he been inclined, he could have opened up the house to every single Death Eater and to Voldemort himself. He had not been so inclined. Still, someone undoubtedly thought that he could be of more help than the other Ministry lackeys and assorted Death Eaters sent to grab Harry Potter should he step out onto the street dragging his Hogwarts trunk behind him on the morning of September 1st.

Severus hunched over under a borrowed anonymous brown cloak, anxious to not be recognized by anyone on the inside looking out, but equally anxious to get a glimpse of Harry or one of his friends.

What the hell?

The door to Grimmauld place had just opened, seemingly on its own, then closed again. He thought he’d seen something else—a flicker of cloth perhaps, or the white sole of a trainer.

It was enough to confirm that the house was still being used; that in all likelihood Harry was the one using it. That he was inside now, at this very moment, returned from some errand, perhaps. He knew that Harry would have to Apparate precisely onto the narrow stair to stay within the boundary of the Fidelius charm and avoid being seen and was inordinately happy that he’d practiced precisely this type of Apparition with Harry over Easter break.

The fact that he’d seen only a flicker of…something…told him that Harry was taking the added precaution of using his invisibility cloak as well.

Movement at the house again caught his eye—this time his attention was drawn up to the heavy drapes over the front parlor windows. What? A house elf? He was careful to not show any reaction whatsoever to the wizened little face that had appeared just over the window sill, peaking out between the curtains. That face had to belong to Kreacher. That rat bastard of an elf could not be up to any good. A moment later, though, a second face joined the first and his heart gave a sudden jolt and he leaned forward, unable to stop the reflexive movement. Harry froze, clearly watching him, so he forced himself to look to the side then casually turn to look behind him before once again staring at the house, as nonchalantly as was possible given the erratic beat of his heart. Harry’s face was unmistakable, messy hair and glasses and all. His expression was indiscernible—perhaps puzzled, perhaps contemplative. His head was just above the elf’s—clearly, they had achieved some sort of truce—and he looked out the window long moments, scanning up and down the street then focusing again on the obvious group of six robed figures in the dusty little square. Finally, as if he had seen enough, he let the curtain drop back in place. He and the elf disappeared at the same time.

Severus looked down, his hood draping the sides of his face, his heart clenching inside him, an invisible fist gripping his heart so hard, so tightly, that for a moment he had trouble breathing. He swallowed a nearly audible sigh of relief

It had been two months and twenty days since he’d seen Harry last.

Harry was seventeen now.

He needed a haircut—and a shave.

He was safe. He was alive. That was enough—at least for now.

Severus looked up at the house again but no one appeared in the windows, or anywhere else, while he remained on patrol. As it darkened, a window on the second floor then one on the third glowed with a faint light, as if, perhaps, a single candle was lit in each, set back far from the window itself. By eleven o’clock, these glows, too, disappeared.

Severus Apparated back to the gates of Hogwarts just after midnight and began the long walk up to the castle.

It was September 1st, the start of term. His appointment as Headmaster would be announced in _The Daily Prophet_ today. The Hogwarts Express would arrive in the early evening. The children would be subdued. The sorting would be over quickly—there would be only twenty-two students sorted that year. He would give a brief speech of warning and instruction rather than welcome and introduction. His voice would be cold and firm. There would be no second guessing Headmaster Snape. It would be clear that he was there, at Hogwarts, at the behest of the Ministry and that the Ministry was now controlled by the Dark Lord. The students, with the exception of most of the Slytherins, would hate and resent him, would reject him were they able or empowered. He had murdered their beloved headmaster, after all, had left him lying dead at the foot of the Astronomy Tower while he fled the castle in the company of Death Eaters.

Headmaster Snape would be busy from here forward. Life would afford him few chances to try to get a glimpse of Harry.

He laughed, out loud, right there on the moonlit path as he trudged onward. As if getting a glimpse of Harry’s face was difficult these days with those “Undesirable #1” posters everywhere. A Ministry lackey had visited Hogwarts that very day and had posted at least fifty of them in the castle. The Ministry had absolutely no idea what innovative students with unlimited ink could do to a poster.

He wondered when he’d next hear news of Harry.

He wouldn’t have long to wait.


	2. September 1997

Chapter 2 

September, 1997 

Severus was back at Grimmauld Place two days later. 

It was September 2nd, six o’clock in the evening, just as dinner was being served in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. He was standing beside Yaxley, a very irritated, annoyed Yaxley, on the stairs outside of Number 12. 

Staring at the blood on the stoop. 

“I don’t have time for this,” groused Severus contemptuously. Yaxley, curiously, looked apprehensive. Severus rubbed the toe of his boot in the plate-sized pool of drying blood on the tiles, his stomach lurching at the tacky feel. “What happened here?” 

“Splinching,” answered Yaxley. “Not sure which one.” 

“Hmmph,” said Severus, conveying all the disdain he felt for Yaxley and the Ministry in the sound and successfully passing it off as disdain for Harry and his friends. “What have you found inside?” 

“Nothing,” admitted Yaxley with an expression somewhere between a frown and a sneer. “I didn’t get past the foyer. There’s something…not right…in there. They sent for you—since you know the place already.” 

Severus nodded and glanced back at the huddle of men in the square behind them, Death Eaters all, waiting to raid the house as soon as he gave the all-clear. He had, of course, insinuated that Albus Dumbledore had erected an intricate maze of spells and charms and traps to protect the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. As this was essentially a lie, he had not expected that Yaxley would get only as far as the foyer before calling for backup. 

That call had come at 4 p.m., and Severus had stood in front of the Floo, seemingly impassive and bored, as the Minster’s junior undersecretary informed him that a Polyjuiced Harry Potter had broken into the Ministry of Magic and had nearly been apprehended; that the Ministry was now in control of the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. 

Hidden behind the passive, controlled exterior, Severus Snape was at war with himself. 

Immeasurable relief that Harry had escaped—the Ministry flunky _had_ said “nearly been apprehended”—battled with furious anger that Harry had tried something so stupid—so dangerous—and all led to gnawing worry—where was Harry now? 

Details of the unprecedented infiltration trickled in. He insisted on two hours before he left Hogwarts for London and in that two hours, the students somehow found out that Harry had dared to take on the entire Ministry of Magic. The story, fact and fiction, would give the students fodder—and hope—for many weeks to come. 

“They ripped a locket right off of Umbridge’s neck…funny, Potter stealing lady’s jewelry,” drawled a familiar voice as Severus bypassed the doorway to the Great Hall, buttoning his traveling cloak at his neck. “Not that I’m surprised—always was a bit of a ponce.” 

So, Malfoy had inside information. No surprise there. Severus almost tripped on the threshold, however, when the significance of what Draco had said hit him. 

A locket. 

Albus believed one of the horcruxes was a locket that had belonged to Salazar Slytherin. 

But from around the neck of Dolores Umbridge? 

Damn. He had assured Harry that the woman would be locked away, punished for her illegal actions with the blood quill while at Hogwarts. Yet Harry had encountered her—must have encountered her—at the Ministry, _working_ for the Ministry. 

He had let Harry down, but there was no time now for remorse. 

Now, boot smeared with blood—undoubtedly Weasley’s as Harry had too much practice at Apparition to splinch himself and it was simply inconceivable that Hermione even _could_ —Severus called up every reserve of hope within him and opened the door to #12 Grimmauld Place and stepped into the dim foyer. 

“Severus Snape!” 

He instinctively took a step backward, wand in hand and pointing at the corner from which the voice had issued. Mad Eye, he thought. But no, Mad Eye was dead. The man had been killed a month ago in the fight outside the Dursley’s home. He looked behind him quickly—Yaxley had remained outside. The shape that flew toward him as he turned his head chilled him to the bone. 

“Albus!” He was tired, and he was stressed. The shape looked like Albus, if only for a moment. Inexplicably, his tongue curled in his mouth but he threw off the tongue-tying hex with concerted effort and stood unmoving, heart beating impossibly fast, as the shape exploded in dust before him. 

“Snape?” Yaxley poked his head in the door, retreating quickly from the settling dust. 

“I require thirty minutes,” Severus said, turning to stare at Yaxley and narrowing his eyes. “There will be more to dismantle than this ridiculous child’s trick.” Yaxley returned the stare, understanding the insult, yet nodded sharply and retreated outside. 

Severus went directly up to the upper floors first, ignoring the attic for lack of time and heading straight to Black’s old room. 

As he had expected, the room had a lived-in look to it. A pair of white athletic socks was balled up on a chair on top of a stack of _Daily Prophets._ The top paper carried the banner headline that Harry Potter was wanted for questioning in Albus’ death. The bed was made but rumpled, as if someone had slept on top of the covers. Books from the Black family library were piled on the desk and parchment scraps were scattered across the wooden surface. Severus glanced at the parchment pieces, eyes widening, and quickly gathered them up and thrust them in an inside pocket of his cloak. He stood next to the bed a long moment, staring down at the Harry-sized depression in the covers, his heart thumping in his chest, then took a step closer and leaned down to pick up the pillow. He hugged it against him, buried his face in it for the briefest of time, long enough only to pick up the faint yet familiar scent. 

In another world, on another day, it might have bothered him that Harry had chosen this room as his own, this room that had belonged to his godfather. But today the memory of Sirius Black did not surface and it was only the ghost of Harry that Severus Snape pursued. 

He dropped the pillow back on the bed, smoothed it with his hand then eyed he socks and banished them. He pointed his wand at the books, ready to send them back to the library, seeking to erase as much detail as possible about those that had used this house as a hideout and what they had done while here, but paused to quickly examine the titles. _The Hogwarts Founding Four: Complete Biographies. Heirlooms and Totems. Secrets of Gringotts. Building the Ministry of Magic from Bottom to Top. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn._ His fingers lingered on the American novel and he picked it up, remembering the adventures it contained, and pocketed it quickly before Banishing the rest. 

He collected more pieces of parchment from the drawing room, most in Hermione’s neat and precise writing, noting as he moved through the house that the filthy old mansion was unusually clean. He summoned toothbrushes and combs, Scourgified the room Weasley had obviously been using, silenced Mrs. Black with a quick spell before she had a chance to recognize him and scream out her rage from beyond the grave, and started down the dark, narrow stairs to the kitchen. 

Kreacher was waiting for him, pressed against the wall next to the hearth, hiding in the shadows. The elf stepped out as soon as he recognized the intruder in his home, facing Severus in his clean towel with a golden locket suspended on the chain around his neck. Severus’ eyes focused on the locket, trying to piece together the anomaly of it being here, around the elf’s thin neck. 

“Kreacher wishes to know where his master is, Headmaster sir,” said the elf in the slow, gravelly voice Severus remembered. “Dinner is waiting and Master and his friends have not returned.” 

Severus turned his head to stare at the table, eyes widening as he noted the clean but simple white cloth, the candles, the place settings for three complete with soup bowls and linen napkins. A delicious scent wafted toward him. It smelled like seafood bisque. 

“Mr. Potter and his friends have had to go into hiding.” Severus tried to keep his voice firm and level as he spoke to the old elf. “This house will soon be overrun with Ministry officials and Death Eaters. You are to go to Hogwarts, now. I will call you when I return there and we will…talk.” _Talk about that locket. Talk about what happened to change the animosity between you and Harry._

“Master is safe?” Kreacher stared at Snape, over-large eyes blinking once, slowly, in the dim shadowy kitchen. “Master Harry Potter said Kreacher must go to Headmaster Snape if he does not come home, yet Headmaster Snape has come instead to Kreacher.” 

“Your master is safe,” said Severus with conviction he did not quite feel. “Go, now. Take your possessions with you.” 

The elf bowed low and disappeared into a cupboard. Severus turned quickly toward the kitchen, undoing the careful table arrangements with a series of quick spells, then banishing the bisque with deep regret. It would not do to let the Ministry know that his new personal chef had come from the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. 

/ 

By ten o’clock that evening, Severus had suffered through visits from Yaxley, Lucius Malfoy and Dolores Umbridge. 

Yes, he had seen evidence that the house had been occupied—the exact same evidence they had all seen, of course. No, he had seen nothing specific to indicate that Harry Potter himself had been there but of course he had been—the fool and his friends had brought Yaxley back there, hadn’t they? No, he had seen nothing to indicate where they had gone. He had no time for this—wasn’t this Ministry business and not something to tie up the hands of the Headmaster of Hogwarts? 

Malfoy, of course, was interested in the contents of the house, particularly of the library since Mundungus Fletcher had removed nearly all of the obvious valuables already. It was obvious, wasn’t it, that the house should return to the Black family given Potter’s dubious claim to it and his current legal status. Severus feigned indifference and didn’t bother to point out that Bellatrix was the oldest sister, not Narcissa, and most certainly could lay a reasonably successful claim to the property. 

Umbridge. Had he been content to die that day, or abandon Hogwarts altogether, he would have subjected her to a few rounds of the Cruciatus followed by a one-way ticket to the ground from the top of the Astronomy Tower. As it was, he didn’t acknowledge her as she entered his office, continuing his perusal of the evening edition of _The Daily Prophet,_ ignoring her “hem, hem” and only looking up when she approached the desk, her utilitarian thick-soled shoes scuffing inelegantly on the flagstone floor, and pushed his paper down with her manly square hand with its unmanly stubby frosty pink fingernails. 

“Dolores.” His voice was more dismissive than welcoming. 

“Severus,” she simpered. “I would like to see the Weasley girl.” 

Severus slowly folded up the paper, leaned back in his over-sized chair and gazed up at the toad. 

“No,” he said simply. 

Umbridge’s mouth nearly dropped open. She recovered, however, then narrowed her eyes and rallied. 

“Five minutes, Severus. Have her brought here at once. You may remain while I speak with her.” 

Severus steepled his fingers below his chin and stared at the pink monstrosity a long moment before replying, leaving her standing in front of his desk looking irritated. 

“I am the Headmaster of this school, _Dolores_ ,” he said. He managed to avoid spitting when he said her name, but just barely. “I control access to my students, _all_ of my students. Perhaps you should approach Miss Weasley’s parents and arrange to interview the girl while she is in their care, not mine.” 

Umbridge pressed her lips together in displeasure. Her squarish hand gripped her stubby wand inside her robe pocket. He could see it outlined there, end pushing down into the woman’s stout thigh. She placed her hands on his desk and leaned down toward him, menacing in her own way but not nearly as menacing as Severus on a sunny day, not by half. 

“He has stolen a locket, one I’m quite fond of. He’s undoubtedly stolen it for his little _girlfriend._ ” 

“Ahhh,” said Severus. He gave her a signature twisted smile. “I see. Perhaps you should give me a description of this locket, Dolores, so I can be on the watch for it. Old family heirloom, I suppose? Been in the family for centuries? Engraved with a letter U? Picture inside of you and Cornelius Fudge holding hands?” 

Her mouth dropped open to protest but nothing came out. She stood up and turned to leave. “I’d prefer to look for it myself,” she decreed. 

Severus casually waved his wand at the door behind her. It slammed shut and remained so when she yanked on it to open it. 

“Perhaps you have a photo of the locket,” he suggested, standing up and moving to pour himself tea from the service behind his desk. He did not offer her any. “If this locket is so valuable, perhaps it would be an asset to our cause. I am sure that the Dark Lord would be… _interested_ …in examining it.” 

She stared at him, unable to mask the look of horror that settled on her face, and was gone a minute later, back to the Ministry through the Floo connection in his office. 

He stared at the fire and shook his head, returning to his desk with a steaming cup of tea. He picked up the paper again. 

Harry’s photo once again took up a large portion of the top half of the front page. It was an older photo, most likely from his fifth year, and he scowled in it, looking properly put out. A smaller photo of Hermione accompanied the article, proclaiming her to be a “Mudblood Imposter.” But it was on Harry’s photo that he focused, clearly remembering this 15-year-old Harry Potter of fifth year, angry, unhappy, and, unbeknownst to Severus at the time, forced to submit to the blood quill over and over and over again in frequent, almost nightly detentions. 

Harry, gone now, untraceable, no longer within the relative safety of the walls of Grimmauld Place. There was so much he should have told him—places to avoid, safe places to hole up or camp, how to avoid being seen by Muggles, better yet how to avoid being seen by Wizards. Glamour charms that didn’t rely on polyjuice. How to stay warm on a cold night, how to make a fire in the wind with wet wood. 

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and uncovered his clock. He’d placed it here when he’d moved into the office, hiding it beneath a pile of personnel files of former faculty members. Charity Burbage’s was on top. 

The clock’s hand pointed to “Mortal Peril.” 

He swallowed and tamped down the fear. It could mean anything. It was likely to remain this way as long as Harry was a wanted man, as long as he was outside the shelter of a Fidelius charm. 

Finally he covered the clock, closed the drawer and rubbed his eyes. 

“Kreacher!” he called. 

The elf appeared almost immediately, still clad in the bright white towel worn toga-style, chain still around its neck but locket tucked beneath the towel, next to his skin and out of sight. 

“Headmaster Snape has called Kreacher,” the elf stated in his low, sing-song voice as he bowed before Severus. 

Severus indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

“Sit,” he commanded, firmly but not unkindly. He leaned forward as Kreacher looked at the chair suspiciously but cautiously eased himself into it. Severus turned back to the Floo to close and ward it and cast a Muffliato around his desk just in case. 

“I’d like to know everything you know about what Harry and his friends were doing at the Ministry today,” he commanded. As Kreacher opened his mouth, he held up his hand. “But before that…tell me about that locket you’re wearing.” 

Kreacher’s hand came up instinctively and clutched at his chest. 

“It was a gift,” he said in his ancient, low voice. “A gift from Master Harry.” 

“I see,” said Severus, nodding to indicate his approval of the gift. He looked intently at the little elf, wishing he could Legilimize the creature and get to the end of this faster, understand what was going on with the two lockets, and the elf who obviously adored the Master he had once hated. 

“It was Master Regulus’,” began the elf, still clutching the locket protectively through his towel and eying Severus suspiciously. “But it is mine now.” He met Severus’ eyes, challenging him, and Severus stared at him, masking his shock only with great effort, and settled back to hear the story of a house elf named Kreacher and a Death Eater hero named Regulus Black. 

/ 

The next day, as the news about Harry’s infiltration of the Ministry spread throughout the school, he was forced to deal with the fallout among the students. He clamped down hard, as the Headmaster must under the circumstances, with automatic detentions for anyone found with a copy of the Prophet or overheard discussing the incident. He patrolled the Great Hall himself during all three meals, walking slowly up and down between the tables, and lurked about the hallways between classes. 

He heard a great many things, and wondered if any of them were true. 

He spied mostly on the Gryffindors, realizing there could easily be remnants of truth in their talk, for Ginny Weasley was among them and she surely was privy to some inside information, must have participated in the planning on some level back in the days at the Burrow before the wedding. If rumor was to be believed, Harry was ensconced in the Forbidden Forest with the centaurs, living in Hagrid’s cabin under his invisibility cloak, staying at a tavern in Cornwall, hiding out in Romania with Charlie Weasley, imprisoned in Azkaban and playing seeker for England under a heavy glamour. He had gone to the Ministry under Polyjuice to off Umbridge once and for all, kidnap the Minister of Magic, find blueprints for Azkaban prison, steal a time-turner from the Department of Mysteries and alter his own birth certificate. 

Frustrated at the end, Severus ordered Filch to bring Ginny Weasley to his office. 

Filch rubbed his hands gleefully when given the order. He delivered the girl to Severus at exactly eight o’clock in the evening, holding on to her upper arm roughly as she struggled to free herself from his grip. 

She did not look entirely well. 

Severus ordered her to be seated in one of the chairs facing his desk and dismissed the reluctant-to-leave Filch, brandishing a short wooden cane as he waved him away, eliciting an evil smile and a nod of approval from the old caretaker. When the door was closed, he sealed it with a spell, cast the Muffliato that was quickly becoming his trademark spell and walked quickly back to his desk, sitting down and leaning in on his elbows, staring at Ginny Weasley. 

She stared back, eyes showing cool defiance and behind them a tendril of doubt. 

“Where is Harry?” he asked abruptly. 

Her eyes widened slightly at the unexpected use of Harry’s given name, he imagined. 

“No idea,” she answered cooly. 

“When did you last see him?” he continued. He stayed just within the guise of the Death Eater Headmaster. 

Ginny Weasley shrugged. 

Severus stared at her. “Surely you remember that event, Miss Weasley,” he said, striving for a low, silken, menacing tone. 

He could tell by her face that she did, but she answered only vaquely. “I saw him some time this summer. It’s been a while.” 

“This summer.” He let the statement lie there between them for a long moment. “Where, precisely, did you see him this summer, then?” 

“If this is about what was in the Prophet, I can’t help you,” she stated with a tight smile. “It’s been at least a month since I’ve heard anything at all from or about Harry.” 

“From I might believe,” countered Severus. “About…?” He shook his head slowly. “You are lying.” 

Her response was quiet and strangely non accusative. She looked up from her study of her own hands and met his eyes. 

“So are you.” 

They stared at each other a long moment. Severus noted that the girl had her hair tied back at the nape of her neck in a messy ponytail. She looked like she might have dropped some weight. The skin around her eyes looked taught, her face slightly pale, as if she were not sleeping well. 

She was young to take on the same worry that plagued him in all of his waking and sleeping hours. 

Severus moistened his dry lips. He calculated his risk. Kept his voice neutral and cool. 

“We understand each other, then.” 

She nodded. 

“You do realize, of course, that this… _understanding_ …cannot leave this room?” 

She paused, met his eyes, assessing him still. 

“I understand, Headmaster.” 

“That if it did, it would jeopardize your life, and mine?” 

She nodded, biting her bottom lip. 

“And Harry’s?” 

She released her lip and looked up at him, narrowing her gaze. “Really Headmaster?” she answered, her voice too hard for a 16-year-old girl. “Could Harry’s possibly be in any more jeopardy?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” he answered truthfully, using all of the tricks in his bag to keep all emotion from his voice and his eyes. 

She looked away to the side, toward the window, and he knew she was affected by his statement. 

“You should know something else,” he said after allowing her a moment to compose herself. She looked at him again, her eyes tinged with something… perhaps fear, at least apprehension. He continued. 

“Dolores Umbridge was here last night, demanding that you be brought to her.” 

The girl’s face hardened, the hatred in her eyes overpowering any fear she may have had at being thrown in a room with Umbridge. Realization that she hadn’t, in fact, been brought before the toad, dawned on her. 

“What did you tell her?” she asked, the words slipping out, demanding an answer. 

Severus relaxed back in his chair. 

“I refused, on the principle that this is my school, not hers, and she cannot simply barge in and make demands.” He watched the girl’s face as it worked through this information. 

“What did she want with me?” she asked at last. “Something about Harry.” She looked down and Severus saw the first hint of her own dissatisfaction, her own misgivings. He tried to put himself in her position, for a moment, and knew she must feel abandoned by her friends, left out of the adventure because she was too young, held too precious by both Harry and the Weasleys. 

He nodded at her. “She will undoubtedly seek you out elsewhere. Be mindful of that. She believes Harry has stolen something of hers…to give to you.” 

Ginny scoffed. 

“You know he broke up with me, don’t you?” 

He shook his head slightly. No, he didn’t know that, officially. He thought it a good idea, however, given the circumstances of this difficult year. 

“Watch out for her, all the same,” he warned. 

She looked away but nodded. 

“You will…” he struggled for the right words “…do me the favor of keeping me updated—should you hear anything you feel I should know?” 

“Why should I do that?” she retorted. 

In answer, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removed Charity Burbage’s file and the scattered few beneath it and drew out the clock. 

He glanced at it. Mortal Peril…still. 

He placed the clock on the desk, facing him and gazed at it another long moment before looking up at the girl as he slowly turned the clock around to face her. 

She stared at it, the hardness of her face crumbling as she read it. She swallowed and looked away again. 

“You are dismissed,” he said, gathering the clock up again and replacing it carefully in the drawer. 

Ginny Weasley stood quickly and moved to the door, looking back at him once as she opened it. The look on her face was disturbingly close to pity. 

/ 

A few days later, after a particularly stressful day followed by a dinner in a nearly silent hall, students unnaturally quiet following a series of threats by the Carrows that all were taking quite seriously, Severus returned to his office thinking of nothing but the bottle of scotch on his sideboard and a real dinner a few hours later, created for him by Kreacher and served under a silver dish with a white linen napkin. He didn’t feel at all bad for using the house elf in this way; it was the way of house elves to serve and Kreacher had readily transferred his loyalty for Harry to Severus. He demanded very little of the house elf besides a fitting evening meal, but the elf had shown a startling talent for spying and Severus bade him lurk about in corners and nooks, in hallways and classrooms and even in personal quarters, listening, always listening, and reporting back to Severus each evening as Severus ate the meal he had expertly prepared. 

Nothing had been heard of Harry since he broke into the Ministry on the 2nd of September. The few select Death Eaters chosen by the Dark Lord himself and three Ministry Aurors had combed through the house on Grimmauld Place but if anything had come of their investigations, Severus had not been informed. He’d burned the notes and maps he had found there upon his own investigation, marveling at the detail and the depth of the research Harry, Ron and Hermione had undertaken, taking some small degree of comfort in the fact that Harry had chosen his friends wisely and acknowledging that perhaps, just perhaps, those friends had chosen wisely too. 

He opened the door of his office and took a step inside, freezing when the portrait of Headmaster Phineas Nigellus addressed him in his typical haughty, nasal voice. 

“Headmaster Snape. I have a message for you from Harry Potter.” 

Snape quickly threw a warding spell behind him and walked purposefully toward the portrait. 

“From Harry Potter?” he repeated, his heart skipping several beats. “How is it that you have a message from him?” 

“He is in possession of my other portrait,” drawled the portrait, feigning disinterest. “The one that until recently hung in my family home in London. I fear the brat and his miscreant friends have both vandalized and burglarized…” 

“The message,” interrupted Severus with a growl. 

“He says they got it. The thing they were looking for.” Nigellus stared expectantly at Severus, one eyebrow raised. 

Severus forced himself to stay calm. 

“Where is he? Ask him where he is. Tell him he is in Mortal Peril. He’ll know what that means. Come back immediately with an answer.” 

Severus paced. He wondered how much time it took for a portrait to travel through magical space. He stopped as the old headmaster ducked back into his painting and stared again at Severus. 

“Well?” asked Severus abrubtly. 

“He says he is fine. Not much of an answer really, is it?” 

“What else?” ground out Severus, attempting to stare the portrait down. 

Nigellus rolled his eyes. “He reports that they are hiding in a safe place.” 

“What kind of safe place?” demanded Severus. “What have you seen?” 

“The inside of a rather shabby tent,” drolled the painting. “Rather too much of the girl’s leg—she really should cover her calves, the little hussy. A lot of books and parchment. And a locket. They take turns wearing it. It seems to trouble them.” 

The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur as Nigellus carried messages back and forth, always grudgingly but faithfully nonetheless. Severus never learned where Harry was, other than in Great Britain still, hiding, camping. He managed to warn Harry to stay away from the Ministry (fat lot of good that would do at this point), Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley. He told him to flee the UK. He instructed him to send messages through the portrait when he could, to ask for help when he needed it, to be careful. To watch his back. To get enough sleep. To eat enough. 

A knock on the door ended the conversation. Phineas left the frame to warn Harry and did not come back. 

Severus waited a long moment, took several deep breaths, schooled his features. 

Opened the door. 

The Carrows. 

Bloody Hell. 

/ 

Two more weeks of drudgery. More demands from the Dark Lord, from the Ministry. Students misbehaving, testing him, testing the new Hogwarts. The Carrows had begun openly and blatantly using the Cruciatus as punishment during detentions. He sat and listened to Poppy rage at him and did not bend, but he ordered Horace to mass produce the serum used to treat the nerve and muscle damage associated with overexposure to the curse. It was something, but Poppy looked more murderous than grateful. He knew she was beginning to doubt him. He could do nothing for it. Perhaps it was even better this way. 

Howlers came from the parents. They popped into his office then directly out to the Ministry, where a Ministry official made personal visits to parents who were unhappy with the Hogwarts curriculum and “enhanced” discipline policy. 

He took to pacing on the hidden widow’s walk outside the living quarters just over his office. 

A concealed door in the curved wall opened to a spiral staircase leading upward to an open doorway that looked out over the Hogwarts grounds. Standing in the doorway, he could see for miles, unimpeded. A single step down and he was on a wide walkway that circled the tower, edged by a hip-high wall of stone. 

He had never seen Albus here. Albus had never told him of the existence of such a place. But he could feel the Headmaster’s presence as he circled the tower. Not just Albus but all of the headmasters who had walked here through the past ten centuries, could feel them in the warmth of the stone wall as he trailed his fingers upon it as he circled, could feel them in the worn-down groove in the worked limestone floor where their feet had trod, trudged, danced, pounded and paced. 

Most of all he could feel them when he paused to look out over his kingdom from this tower, from this island prison. 

He knew where to stop as he walked. The grooved flagstones led him to stones even more worn, more alive with memory, vantage points from where he could see Hogsmeade, the Forbidden Forest, the castle loch, the Quidditch Pitch, the great gates, the mountains. 

One morning, after breakfast, he walked down to the lake’s edge and peered back at his office windows then moved his gaze up to the parapets above. He could see nothing; no low wall, no walkway. He trudged back up and approached the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Looked again back at his office. Still could see nothing above. He noticed an odd curiosity—the castle turrets seemed quite distant from his vantage points by the lake and by the forest, but when he was up there, outside pacing, everything seemed much closer. 

Charmed then, invisible to the outside, his kingdom magnified for his study alone. 

No wonder he had never spotted Albus here. 

One late afternoon near the end of September, Minerva came to his office door. 

He ushered her in and she sat, grey-faced and silent before him, as he called Kreacher and ordered a hearty tea. Her face registered her surprise at seeing the old house elf in his office, and he quietly and unapologetically explained how this particular bond of servitude had come about. 

Over the seafood bisque he would forever associate with Harry Potter and Grimmauld Place, warming their fingers further around mugs of hot tea, she told him that Neville Longbottom was in the hospital wing, having come dangerously close to suffering the fate of his parents. 

All because he stood up for Harry Potter in class with Amycus Carrow. Refused to condemn his actions. Refused to practice the Cruciatus on his fellow students, even when Carrow offered him Draco Malfoy as a target. 

In that moment, Neville Longbottom became a different person in Severus’ mind. 

One he would protect, with all he had, if he possibly could. 

One who had shown his mettle. One who had proven himself. One who was willing to walk into hell for a heavenly cause. 

And that cause was Harry Potter. 

That cause…that cause was his son.


	3. October 1997

Chapter 3

October, 1997

The first Quidditch game of the year was held on the second Saturday of October, with Gryffindor flying against Slytherin. Attendance at the match, as with all school activities this year, was mandatory. The Slytherin team was made up of six returning players and one new upstart playing as chaser. The Gryffindor team, captained by returning chaser Ginny Weasley, still had its beaters from the previous year, Coote and Peakes, but the remaining four players were new and very green. They didn’t stand a chance against the polished Slytherin team, even if the refereeing wasn’t as biased as it was bound to be.

Severus sat in the faculty box with the Hogwarts Professors and the Slytherin team’s parents, all of whom had been invited to the match and to the following victory celebration. Lucius Malfoy sat directly in front of him. He was dressed as impeccably as always, his hair combed straight about his shoulders, shining in the muted October sun. The only thing that gave away his unease was the occasional twitch of a shoulder and the way his hand clenched and unclenched around the serpent-shaped head of his cane. His wife Narcissa sat beside him, hands in her lap, eyes forward. It seemed to Severus that she did not much enjoy being outdoors.

The Gryffindors fought like hellcats but ultimately, Slytherin took the game 360 to 210, with Gryffindor catching the snitch to end the torture. The customary raucous on-field celebration following a Quidditch match was subdued, almost non-existent, a mere clapping of shoulders if that. Groups of students walked quickly back toward the castle, huddled together, having learned that the old axiom about there being safety in numbers applied especially well this year. They seemed intent on getting back to the castle then into their common rooms where they would have less of a chance to encounter one of the Carrows and experience their growing arsenal of cruel punishments in their escalating reign of terror.

The Slytherin victory party was held in a suite of rooms customarily used by visitors, especially members of the Board of Governors or other minor “dignitaries.” The house elves provided a spread of food suitable for royalty. The Minister of Magic himself, Pius Thicknesse, Flooed in for the celebration and the Slytherin parents queued up to fawn over him. Severus mentally shook his head. The Minister was a figurehead, a puppet, and nothing more. He signed nothing, did nothing, hardly dared to hiccup or use the loo in fact, without the explicit permission and directions of the Dark Lord himself. 

Severus lavishly praised the Slytherin team, awarded 50 points each for their stunning performance (an award which would not go unnoticed by the other houses and which broke a 300-year-old moratorium on awarding house points for athletic performance) and handed out an extra Hogsmeade weekend to the entire house. The parents had no doubt, if they had any prior to that celebration, that Headmaster Snape was a Slytherin through and through and understood his place at Hogwarts.

He was able to leave the celebration early, insinuating that he had to prepare for an important “meeting” off-site. While he fully intended to have a much-needed drink with Aberforth after curfew and hoped to prepare for it with a short nap, the others naturally assumed he would be briefing his Master. He left Horace in charge of the festivities and groveling to Thicknesse and departed with a perfunctory bow to the Minister and final praise to the Slytherin Quidditch Team and to Slytherin House in general.

In the hallways he passed only two groups of students, one obviously heading to the library and the second leading a limping lower year to the infirmary.

All of the students greeted him with the required “Good afternoon, Headmaster Snape, Sir.” He paused to watch each group on its way. “No loitering in the hallways,” he reminded the first group, for no particular reason—for the group was decidedly not loitering as it virtually scurried past him. When he asked the three students headed to the infirmary what sort of business they had there, despite the fact that one of the students was clearly almost unable to walk, the oldest (and undoubtedly bravest) answered that the injured party had gotten tripped up on the trick stair on the staircase behind the tapestry. “Avoid that stair,” was his advice before moving on, as if the boy with the injured leg was somehow inconveniencing him.

He was very tired, his mind exhausted from the morning and afternoon’s façade. He was looking forward to a mid-afternoon nap and a perusal of the weekend edition of the _Prophet_ —which he read religiously, looking for any mention of Harry, his friends or any known member of the Order of the Phoenix. “Treacle Tart,” he said in a low voice to the guardian gargoyle. He stepped onto the moving stairway, idly thinking that he was glad it didn’t have a trick stair, for that would likely end badly for anyone stuck in it, and rode quietly to his office door.

Which was slightly ajar.

He paused, hand on the doorknob, and listened.

He heard faint sounds but no voices yet he knew, instinctively, that someone was inside, someone who should not be there.

His non-verbal “Immobilis” not only caught them all, it caught them all by surprise.

All of them.

The three students. 

The portraits which, oddly, had been watching the students attempt to open the case where the Sword of Gryffindor was stored instead of alerting him to the presence of intruders in his office, turned to stare at him. He ignored the older portraits and the students—not surprisingly Weasley, Lovegood and Longbottom—and walked instead over to Albus’ portrait and cast a Muffliato when he was face to face with the former headmaster in the painting.

“What is going on here, Albus?” he hissed.

“They are attempting to steal the Sword of Gryffindor,” answered Albus. “I rather thought they would not be successful but it was a valiant effort, don’t you agree? And well-planned as well—when you were otherwise engaged with the victory celebration and the corridors were especially quiet. I believe they did not expect you back so early.”

Severus stared at Albus and with great effort kept himself from looking at the three students, Harry’s friends all, standing immobilized in his private office.

“Is there a reason,” he asked, “other than its obvious use as a deadly weapon, that they are stealing this sword?”

“Because I willed it to Harry,” answered Albus simply. “Because he will need it, before the end.”

“And they _know_ this how?” asked Severus, his voice low-pitched still, but only with effort.

“They know only that I willed it to Harry, for Miss Weasley was there on the day that the former Minister visited the Burrow and delivered the rest of my bequeaths. They do not know why I did so, but the fact that I did is all that matters.”

“And why,” continued Severus, sweeping his arm around the room at the dozens of portraits mounted on the walls, “ _why_ did no one—none of these sentinels—inform me that there were intruders in my office?”

“Because the children began by explaining why there were here,” answered Dumbledore, smiling broadly. “And I corroborated their tale. Since I gave the sword as a bequest, they all agreed that it does, indeed, belong to Harry Potter.”

“I see,” said Severus, staring hard, again, at Albus. “Do they know…?”

“No,” he answered immediately. “They do not. I quite admired their effort and their loyalty to Harry, but I did not deem it necessary to inform them.”

Severus gave Albus a small, tight smile of thanks and whirled around. He cast a locking spell at the outside door and a nonverbal _Muffliato_ at the perimeter. He gazed in turn at each of the students. Lovegood was obviously the lookout. She was poised between desk and door. Ginny Weasley had her hands inside the case, the right one on the hilt of the sword. Longbottom held the case open for her.

He pointed his wand at Luna Lovegood.

“Finite Incantatem,” he murmured aloud. She stumbled slightly but righted herself as the immobilization spell was cancelled. Keeping his wand on her, he pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.”

She glanced at her still frozen friends, Neville with his head turned back at them but Ginny looking down at the sword. “Are you…?” she started, looking from them back to the Headmaster.

“Sit,” he repeated. She obeyed, walking over to the chair and sitting on it quite properly. She didn’t look afraid. She didn’t look defiant either, however. She looked, if anything, interested. He knew she was an odd bird, one of those children with unlimited and unchanneled creative ability, and remembered the high regard Harry had for her.

“What are you doing in my office?” he asked her, his voice low and menacing.

“Getting Harry’s sword,” she answered simply. “He’s going to need it, or else Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have bequeathed it to him.

“If this sword is, as you say, ‘Harry’s sword,’ why did the former Minister not give it to him already? I understand he made a special trip to see Harry this summer.”

“Oh, Minister Scrimgeour? He was confused,” she answered simply. “He believed the sword to be the property of Hogwarts and not of the Headmaster of Hogwarts. So technically, the sword wouldn’t be yours, would it? It would belong to Hogwarts, except that it doesn’t, because Professor Dumbledore gave it to Harry.”

He ignored her logic. “You have broken into my office, the office of the Headmaster, and have attempted to remove a valuable relic. I would call that a grievous crime, would you not, Miss Lovegood?”

“Oh, we didn’t _break_ into the office,” said Luna, brightening up a bit. “We guessed the password. It’s nearly always a sweet, isn’t it? And Harry’s favorite dessert is Treacle Tart. So there you go.” She fiddled with her earring, which looked to be in the shape of a radish and was quite possibly an actual radish, and sat forward in her chair a bit.

“Two hundred points from Ravenclaw, Miss Lovegood,” said Severus, wanting to end this little interview and send her on her way. “And detention, to be served after I consider and choose an appropriate punishment.”

“Oh.” Her face fell a bit. “My housemates aren’t going to be too pleased with me, are they? Oh well.” She shrugged and looked up at Severus again. “You _are_ going to give the sword to Harry, aren’t you, Sir?”

Severus could hardly believe the mind of the child sitting before him, so outwardly oblivious yet still succeeding at cutting through all the contrivances and masks, insisting on seeing him, when all was said and done, as Harry’s protector, Harry’s mentor. She had the audacity to trust in him even though her classmates were being taught Unforgivables and being punished with torture. He felt then like the Emperor in the children’s fable “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” He stood before her, clothed in fabric of his own making. Lies. Half-truths. Deception. Cruelty sublime. Honed hatred. Injustice. Yet this young lady, this friend of Harry’s, saw through to his unclothed heart, the naked organ beneath the tainted skin.

He cleared his throat carefully, reminding himself to be unyielding.

“You will remember,” he said slowly, staring at her, locking eyes with her, his mind invading hers briefly, images floating by of friends holding hands and fields of daisies and crup puppies and strange pixie-like butterflies. If she knew where Harry was, she had hidden it well.

“You will remember,” he repeated after a long pause, “that Harry Potter is _wanted_ by the Ministry of Magic for questioning for crimes against this school. Your continued association with Mr. Potter will put your own life and safety at risk. Go about your business, Miss Lovegood, and stay out of trouble. You will more easily stay out of trouble if you keep to your own house and do not mingle with Gryffindors. You are dismissed.”

“But the sword,” she said as she stood. “Do you plan to give it to Harry?”

“Out!” he exclaimed, pointing at the door which he unlocked with a flicker of a gesture from his wand.

She left, looking thoughtful, and he could not help but believe that she was considering the fact that he had never answered her question.

He stood up then and turned to face the remaining students. Leaving Neville Longbottom in place, he walked over to the case holding the Sword of Gryffindor and grabbed on to Ginny Weasley’s wrist, the one dangerously close to the sword. He lifted his wand and touched her neck.

“Finite incantatem,” he growled. He caught the girl as she began to fall, off-balance after such a long period of time frozen. He righted her and pointed to the desk chair, casting another nonverbal locking spell on the door. He watched her move slowly to the chair and sit on its edge while he took his seat behind his desk.

Severus steepled his hands in front of himself, elbows resting on the desk, and stared at the girl for a long moment. He wanted to make an impression on the Longbottom boy, make sure that one, at least, of these children hated him as they should.

“Where is Harry Potter?” he asked suddenly, startling Ginny. She jumped slightly and glanced over at Neville.

“I don’t know,” she answered, rather weakly.

“I don’t believe you,” he returned coolly. “Where is Mr. Potter?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, looking first at her hands, then up at him. “I really don’t know. No one’s heard from him. He’s probably fled the country.” She lifted her chin in challenge. “Wouldn’t you?”

He ignored her question, well-placed as it was. “If that is true—and I still do not believe it is—why were you attempting to steal the Sword of Gryffindor?” He leaned back slightly, finger tapping the desk, awaiting an answer.

“The sword is Harry’s,” she answered, her voice rising. “Professor Dumbledore left it to him in his will. I heard it! I heard what Minister Scrimgeour told him! It was meant to go to Harry, not stay in some box in your office. It wasn’t meant to be in this office at all!”

“Are you Harry Potter then?” he asked, arching one eyebrow. “Is he?” He gestured over to Neville, who was still standing at attention, unmoving, several feet away. “Because if you are not privy to Mr. Potter’s location, you can no more deliver the sword to him than can the Minister of Magic himself!” He let his voice rise sharply. He did not feel one drop of the anger he was feigning, but the frustration and weariness that plagued him were good substitutes and his emotions came across as believable. “What were you planning to do with that sword, Miss Weasley, had your little plot succeeded?”

“Nothing,” she said, chancing another glance over at Longbottom. “We were just going to save it, give it to Harry if we ever saw him again.”

“You are lying. Again.” He steeled himself for this next part. “However, as there is almost no chance you will ever see _Mr. Potter_ alive again, I will hold on to the sword for him. For I believe I may see him one day, groveling at the feet of He Who Must Not be Named…”

She must have known he was playing with her, but she seemed to lose control at that. Perhaps it was too close, too real. “No!” she shouted, jumping up, her wand in her hand quickly, but he was a step ahead of her. He grabbed her wrist across the desk and wrenched her wand out of it just as behind him the Longbottom boy threw off the Immobilis spell, lifted the sword from its resting place in the case and faced him, sword held high.

“Harry would never do that!” he shouted. “Not the Harry Potter I know!”

Two weeks ago, Neville Longbottom had risen high in Severus Snape’s estimation when Minerva had informed him that Neville was in the hospital wing…and why. He respected that Neville Longbottom.

He respected this one even more.

He thought that as he disarmed the boy, the sword clattering to the floor, and then stupefied him. 

“Two hundred points from Gryffindor and detention to be served here, with me, every Friday night until Christmas,” he said to Ginny, calmly now that there was no audience other than the portraits. He handed her wand back to her. “Dismissed.”

She stood, eyeing Neville’s prone form on the floor. He’d fallen in such a way that one outstretched arm appeared to be holding the sword. She looked back at Severus, eyes pleading.

“Don’t break him,” she said. “Please.” She added in a very quiet voice, “He’s our rock now.”

He nodded at her once and waved his wand at the door to unlock it. She slipped out silently and he stood and walked over to the prone form on the floor. He first bent to pick up the sword—it was not the real Sword of Gryffindor, of course, but a very fine copy—and replaced the copy of the weapon and relic into the case from which it had been taken. The real sword had been hidden in a secret compartment behind Albus’ portrait. Albus had been adamant that the real sword be hidden for Harry’s eventual use. He then bent to remove the boy’s wand from his pocket. He held it in his hand, side by side with his own, as he cancelled the spell on the boy and stood, back to the door, as the boy struggled to his feet. The boy’s hand went right for his pocket but Severus motioned with his wand and Neville stood still.

“Two hundred points from Gryffindor and detention on Friday—you will be informed of the location and time later this week. Where is Harry Potter?”

Neville met his eyes. “I don’t know,” he stated firmly. “And if I did, I would never tell you.”

Severus’ heart clenched in pride but Neville Longbottom would never see any show of emotion on the Headmaster’s face.

/

Severus made a very public showing of removing the Sword of Gryffindor and entombing it in the depths of one of the deepest vaults at Gringott’s. 

There was no public announcement to the students of the transgression, though it did not take too many hours before everyone in the school knew what had happened in the Headmaster’s office during the Slytherin victory party. The Gryffindor hourglass had gone into negative numbers, though no one seemed to be too troubled by that. 

On the Friday following the Slytherin Quidditch victory and the attempted theft of the Sword of Gryffindor, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley met Hagrid in the Entry Hall and disappeared together into the Forbidden Forest. They returned after midnight. Their clothes were torn, their arms were scratched and Neville was carrying Hagrid’s oversized crossbow. They returned to their common rooms and over the following weeks they reorganized Dumbledore’s Army. Severus knew this, though they may not have realized it, and did his best to distract the Carrow’s on meeting nights.

He spoke with Harry, through Phineas Nigellus, just three times that month. The first time, Harry spoke of the difficulty in finding food. Severus ached for him, ached for a child who should never know hunger. He spoke of the way the locket robbed the joy from them, and of how Hermione was researching ways to destroy it so they could be rid of it once and for all. Albus shook his head when Severus turned a pleading eye to him. He was taking his cues from Albus now and he said it was not yet time.

“How hungry will he be when it IS time?” he yelled twenty minutes later, his head clutched in his hands on his desk.

The second time, Harry spoke of Ron’s discontent. They had been arguing, about the locket, about the quest, about what Harry knew and didn’t know about the Horcruxes, about the impossibility of finding them all when they had been at this chase for nearly three months and all they had to show for it was a stubborn locket, hungry bellies and a mouldy old tent. 

“You said he would need his friends!” complained Severus to Albus’ portrait late one evening just before Halloween. “Yet Weasley is jeopardizing the entire effort. He is not helping Harry, Albus, he is hurting him. He is wearing him down, complaining about the cold and the food…”

“Severus, put yourself in Mr. Weasley’s shoes for a moment.” He stepped around his painted desk. “At least try. Think. Has Mr. Weasley ever known hunger? Has he ever known cold? How must it be for this boy—accustomed as he is to being part of a large, loving family—to live this kind of life?”

“It is not easy for Harry either,” stated Severus emphatically.

“I am not saying that it is,” replied Albus. “But he has had a different sort of life, has he not?”

Severus’ eyes hardened as he gazed at the portrait Dumbledore. “You are treading on dangerous water, Albus,” he said softly. “You should not go there with me. Not now.” He turned away and strode out of the office, ignoring the hollow shout from behind him.

“Severus! Come back! You know that is NOT what I meant…”

He climbed the stairs to his personal quarters and from there up to the hidden widow’s walk, the crow’s nest, of sorts, that he used more and more as a refuge to gather his thoughts and return to the equilibrium he needed to maintain to survive in this madcap world, to survive long enough to deliver to Harry all he needed to know to dispose of the Dark Lord. He wished it could be done with the Sword of Gryffindor alone. If it could, he’d have it to Harry tonight.

He paced around the tower walkway once, without pause, watching his feet and counting his paces. Once was not enough. He circled again, adding the new paces on to the old, hands still clasped behind his back. On the third circuit he looked up and did not count his steps. He looked out to the lake, to the low grey clouds hanging behind it. He looked out over the forest, leaves past their prime, trees baring their branches and preparing for this coming winter of discontent. He looked past the gates of Hogwarts, to the Village of Hogsmeade below. How it must be to live now in that once warm and friendly village, under curfew like the school above it, residents living in fear, afraid of their shadows, afraid their families would be torn apart.

He let his eyes reach out to the distances, to that space beyond the Forbidden Forest that he could not see, that he had to imagine. Another forest. Phineas had said that Harry and his friends almost always camped in forests. Every day, though, he read in The Prophet that Snatchers were everywhere, in fields and fen, turning in all matter of magical folk—wanted, not wanted—for a few galleons and a chance to net the grand prize, Harry Potter himself. He prayed that Ron Weasley would remain with them, resolute, to offer more protection, to put himself in the line of fire should push come to shove. He wasn’t proud for wanting Ron to act as a shield, but he admitted to himself that he’d sacrifice any number of people for Harry.

He had recovered, or nearly had, from the last meeting at Malfoy Manor. It was on a Saturday or a Sunday, a week ago, ten days, he doesn’t recall, and the Dark Lord was more out of sorts than usual, hard as that was to believe. Thicknesse cowered, looking as dignified and ministerial as a waddle of penguins, his vapid platitudes falling on deaf ears and lying in murky puddles around their feet. Even Bellatrix held back a bit, pleading a headache, sitting tense and stony behind the Slytherin seventh years who had been called to the meeting, on self-appointed nanny duty.

The punishments were brutal. Most of the crimes were contrived.

He was not felled with the Cruciatus but with a cutting curse to the bottom of his feet and the palms of his hands, a curse that put paper-thin slices into his skin to remind him of the Sword of Gryffindor and his ineptitude at protecting it before it was threatened. Essence of Murtlap had helped heal him, but the inflicted pain was long remembered.

And not just by himself.

For the last time he spoke to Harry that month was when he returned from Malfoy Manor, flooing directly into his office then stumbling for the stairs to his quarters above.

“Headmaster Snape!”

He tiredly turned his head toward the portrait of Phineas Nigellus.

“I have a message for you from Harry Potter.”

Severus nodded. He managed a few steps, standing in pools of blood inside his own boots, and stood in front of the portrait. He steadied himself with two fingers against the wall.

“Please tell Harry that it is over, that I am fine. And remind him that he should Occlude when this happens. I am going up to my quarters now to heal myself. Tell him that.” He turned away again.

“Headmaster, Harry Potter wishes you to know that he…that he loves you.” Severus lifted his head and noted that old Headmaster Nigellus had his nose crinkled up, as if he were trying to speak while trying not to smell the dog dirt on his boots.

Severus reached out a hand, numb and tender, and made a move as if to brush the parchment. He dropped his hand before doing so, face ashen.

“Tell Mr. Potter that the sentiment is returned,” he breathed, very quietly. He turned away and stumbled up the stairs and to his bathroom, hoping the cure was not too painful and willing Harry to Occlude.

/

Severus nearly always got drunk on Halloween. He hadn’t last year, since it affected Harry physically as well. This year, with children dispatched to common rooms for small parties with only their housemates, he returned to his office after the Halloween feast to begin sorting through a mound of paperwork—food orders for the kitchen, supplies for the infirmary, correspondence from parents, red tape from the Ministry, solicitations from mastery programs, job applications from would-be professors. He soon found himself restless, however, and opened his bottom desk drawer to glance at Harry’s clock. The hand had rested on “In Trouble” for several weeks now. It hadn’t moved tonight. _Useless clock_ , he thought. _Harry’s always in trouble…even when he’s behaving himself._

He was about to close the drawer when he noticed the book he’d dropped in there a few days ago. He took it out and placed it on his desk.

“Excellent, Severus! Let’s have another chapter,” said a voice behind him as portrait Dumbledore tried to look over his shoulder.

“As you wish,” answered Severus, paging through the book to determine where they had stopped reading last time. He found the place in the book, shot the customary locking charm at the door, cast a Muffliato and turned to face Albus’ portrait, straddling the chair.

“The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, Chapter 21,” he began.

“I do so adore fairy tales,” exclaimed Albus, clapping his hands.

“Shhhh!” said Headmaster Dippet’s portrait self from beside Albus’ portrait. “We’d all like to hear this, please.”

“Of course, Armando,” assured Dumbledore. “Severus, if you would…”

“Chapter 21: Headmaster Dumbledore: The Early Years.”

“I hardly remember them,” said Albus thoughtfully. “That was an unusually long time ago.”

“Well, I certainly remember them,” snorted Headmaster Dippet. “I had just dropped dead from asphyxiating on a snot-flavored Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Bean.”

“Silence,” commanded Severus. He cleared his throat. “The stress of leading a prestigious school such as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry soon took its toll on the new Headmaster. As his health deteriorated and his mind began to wander, a friend, long secret but now identified as the Queen Mum, suggested that Dumbledore take up a hobby. She suggested knitting and within months he was making his own socks. His demeanor changed noticeably during this time period.

“He was a different person once he took up those knitting needles,” said Hyacinth Pinkenbrewer, Albus Dumbledore’s former scullery maid...”

“I never had a scullery maid,” commented Albus. “I confess I always did want one, though…”

“Albus knitted everything—hats, socks, leg warmers, tea cozies, dog sweaters, bunion wraps, scarves and those intriguing dolls you use to cover your spare toilet paper rolls,” said Pinkenbrewer. “I used to help him dye the wool they brought in from the flock of magical sheep they kept at the school…”

“She never did that!” protested Albus.

“I thought you said you never had a scullery maid,” snipped Dippet.

“I didn’t,” said Albus, looking confused.

“Does Hogwarts still have those sheep?” asked Nigellus. 

“There never were sheep either,” said Albus. “You don’t have sheep, do you Severus?”

Severus looked up, an odd look on his tired face.

“Yes, I do, Albus,” he answered. “I have quite a few sheep here at Hogwarts. The problem is, they don’t realize I’m their shepherd.”

He closed the book then, and replaced it in the drawer.

No one said a word as he left again to walk his private balcony.


	4. November 1997

Chapter 4

November, 1997

It grew cold early in November. The castle seemed even chillier this year than in years previous. Perhaps it was because there were fewer students to fill its hallways, or perhaps the cold winds of change that had reshaped Hogwarts lingered too long, blowing down corridors and into classrooms, dampening spirits and picking mercilessly away at any battered remnants of hope left among the students.

The second Quidditch game of the season, between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, lasted nearly six hours. Hufflepuff debuted a new Seeker, a small second-year with a sharp eye but questionable skills on a broom. Ravenclaw's Seeker had been an alternate for just-graduated Cho Chang the past three years; he’d had a run-in with the Carrows the night before the game. He was "resting comfortably" in the hospital wing while one of Ravenclaw's back-up Chasers took the Seeker position. The rain held off during most of the game, though the wind whipped the exhausted players around so much that each team scored for the other more than once. Most of the spectators had abandoned the game and gone inside for cover before the Hufflepuff Seeker literally had a head-on collision with the Snitch and caught it against her forehead, ending the game to raucous but hoarse cheers from her teammates, even though the catch still didn't put Hufflepuff ahead.

When Severus finally made it back to his office, stiff and cold even through the warming charms on his robes, he wanted nothing more than to bypass the room altogether, climb the stairs to his quarters and collapse in front of the fire with a stiff drink while Kreacher prepared a warm supper for him.

He was not expecting the nasally voice of Phineas Nigellus to greet him when he walked through the door.

"There is trouble," the old headmaster said. "The Weasley boy has finally flown the coop."

"Flown the coop? What do you mean?" asked Severus, stopping in his tracks and giving all his attention to the portrait.

"He has left them. Left Potter and the girl. They have been arguing of late—creating a divided camp." He chuckled a bit at his play on words.

Severus stayed where he was, motionless. He glanced reflexively over at Albus' portrait. The headmaster was sitting behind his painted desk, leaning forward as if to better listen, eyes bright and worried.

"Were you there—did you witness the altercation? What exactly happened?" Severus was trying to relax, willing his shoulders to loosen. He kept his voice down, took a deep breath, let it out.

"They have been keeping my portrait in the girl's bag of late. It is there now and I could see nothing. But it must have been close to them when the final argument broke out. I heard every word. And I heard Potter tell the girl, after Weasley Disapparated, that he could not tell you, that indeed they must not tell you and cause you more…worry."

"More worry! How could I possibly be any more worried—?" He rubbed his temples, a gesture that was becoming more and more frequent of late. He took a step closer to Nigellus' portrait. "They are staying put, are they not? Weasley will undoubtedly be back before long. He'll be able to find them, won't he? Is this really such a big crisis?"

"He will not be able to find them once they move on. And given their pattern of late, they should be moving in the morning. They are careful, I'll give them that. Very thorough in their warding."

"Damn!" Severus paced around to his desk and collapsed into his chair. He yanked open the bottom drawer, removed the files and stared at the clock beneath. Mortal Peril. Still. It had been stuck on that reading for weeks now. He threw the files back in and closed the drawer, harder than was necessary.

"What was it that happened? Why did Weasley leave?" asked Severus. "No, wait." He held up his hand at Nigellus and instead summoned Kreacher. The little elf popped in immediately, bowed low and waited for Severus' request. Severus was well-past _starting_ to love this elf. Some days he thought he'd not make it through another "appointment" with his master and fellow Death Eaters if he wasn't secure in the knowledge that he'd have a warm meal and a stiff drink waiting for him when he got back to the castle.

"Scotch, please, Kreacher. And something hearty to eat afterward. Crusty bread, please."

The elf bowed low again, the golden locket, a fixture over his bright white toga, nearly touching the floor.

Severus turned back to the portraits behind him. "Now, tell me. What did you hear? What caused Weasley to leave? And where are they now, anyway?"

Phineas was not unaware that he now had the attention not only of the current headmaster, but of most of the former ones as well. He preened a bit before starting his story.

"They have been arguing of late," he began. "They are frustrated…that they have not found…what they are looking for." He glanced sideways at Severus, who nodded. "They do not have quite enough to eat, or at least what they are accustomed to eating. The locket that they have been taking turns wearing seems to bestow upon them a certain anxiety. Recently they were camping—near a stream, I believe—and they overheard some other travelers nearby, another group that was fleeing the Ministry. Weasley heard stories of Hogwarts, of the attempt to steal the Sword of Gryffindor, of the punishment his sister received."

"It was hardly a severe punishment," retorted Severus.

"Nevertheless, it put the boy more on edge. An argument ensued. Unkind things were said by all. Potter invited the boy to go home to his Mummy for Christmas. My oh my. It was not a pretty scene." Nigellus shook his head.

"He will regret having gone," said Severus softly, more to himself than to his portrait companions. "He will regret it; he will try to come back."

"He won't be able to find them unless he comes back soon," said Nigellus. "For Gryffindors, those children are uncommonly gifted at spellwork…"

"Severus. Severus!" Albus' voice rose behind him. Severus paid it no mind.

"Severus, listen to me. Hear me, please."

Severus slowly turned to face Albus.

"I gave Mr. Weasley something, Severus. In my will. I understand it was delivered to him at the Burrow, by Scrimgeour himself, just before the Ministry fell. I thought…no, I _knew_ this might happen. He will be able to find them if he wants to, in the future. Now you must concentrate on Harry. He will be losing hope. He may try something rash. And I fear it is too early—far too early—for heroics."

"I cannot let Harry know that Nigellus has gone against his wishes," said Severus, slowly, thinking it through. "He must still be able to trust him so that we can communicate from time to time."

"We need to get the sword to them, soon," said Albus. "Preferably when Mr. Weasley returns, so he can participate in the locket's destruction. I feel that will be a critical step in their journey."

Severus nodded, gave a tight smile. He turned toward Phineas Nigellus.

"I want to know anything you hear that reveals where they are or where they are going next. Keep me informed if the situation changes in any way, especially if the Weasley boy returns, or if they are in any obvious danger—" He sighed, smiled that tight smile again. "Danger other than the constant danger in which they exist, of course."

Phineas Nigellus rolled his eyes within his small portrait head. He gave a mock salute and disappeared from the frame of his official Hogwarts portrait at the same time that Kreacher popped back in with Severus' scotch.

He smiled at the small elf, eyes drawn to the locket about the creature's neck, thinking of course of a similar locket that was symbolic of all the trouble in his world.

/

It was difficult to have a meaningful private conversation with Minerva. She spent a good deal of her time in Severus' presence with pursed lips, looking at him sideways while ushering her Gryffindors out of the hallways, out of sight of the Carrows. Fortunately, for those two oafs, out of sight was usually equivalent to out of mind. Cruelty they had in abundance; in brain trust they were somewhere between deficient and severely lacking.

In the latter part of November, Minerva and Severus nearly came to blows.

Minerva was standing protectively outside of her Transfiguration classroom as her fifth-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs exited and her third-year Slytherins and Ravenclaws entered. She was keeping a wary eye out for the Carrows, who by all rights should have been outside of their respective classrooms as well. She had the changing of the classes down to a science and orchestrated the change in front of her door with such precision that she was known, in faculty circles at least, as "the drill sergeant."

Today, however, her routine was shaken up by the arrival of Amycus Carrow, the Dark Arts instructor. If together the Carrows had an entire brain, Amycus had only a quarter of the collective whole. He used a seventh-year Slytherin to do all of his marking and to record his grades. He appeared at Minerva's door, seemingly out of nowhere, and took hold of one of the fifth-year Hufflepuffs by the collar of his shirt.

"Unhand that child," commanded Minerva.

"I need a target," simpered Amycus. "The headmaster said I could pick whoever I wanted. I pick him." He grinned at Minerva, unevenly spaced and browning teeth smirking at her from retreating gums.

"The headmaster can volunteer for that job himself instead of offering up one of the students," she declared in return. The student, a sturdy-looking boy who, despite his size, seemed utterly terrified to find himself face-to-face with his Dark Arts instructor, backed toward Minerva.

"Unhand him!" she called out again, drawing her wand this time. "If you have a problem with this, go fetch the headmaster and I shall have it out with him myself."

She had not been aware, until she made that decree, that the hallway was filled with students, students who usually were hiding in classrooms by this time. They had stalled in their progress toward their next classes to watch the argument play out and erupted in applause when she made her brash statement.

"Get to your classrooms—all of you. Instantly!" The voice behind her, that of the headmaster himself, had an immediate effect on the students, making them scatter and disappear, all but a few brave seventh-year Gryffindors abandoning their head of house. Severus eyed them coolly.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for disobeying a direct order. Now go!"

The Finnigan boy and the Brown girl glanced at each other and scooted away.

Longbottom, however, took a step closer to his head of house, stepping between her and the hated Amycus Carrow.

"Unhand that boy, Amycus," instructed Severus in the cool voice he had perfected over all of these years. He glanced at the defiant Longbottom. "You may take Longbottom, here, instead."

Carrow snorted with glee. He let go of the Hufflepuff's collar, pushing him forward and into Minerva's arms as he did so, and grabbed Neville by the arm. Neville shook him off but did not flee.

"Oh, and Amycus. He may use his wand to protect himself. Give the boy a sporting chance at least, will you? Go on now. I'll come by your classroom in a bit and see what progress the students are making with such a _willing_ target."

Minerva had sent the Hufflepuff on his way and he skidded around the corner moments later. As a stiff Neville disappeared with a grinning Amycus Carrow, Minerva pushed her classroom door closed and turned on a retreating Severus.

"We will discuss this, Headmaster," she ground out.

He turned, fully aware that their conversation could be heard through her door, and likely through the doors of the other classrooms in the corridor.

"We will indeed," he said. "My office, immediately after your last class. Do not be late."

She watched him until he turned the corner, heading toward the Dark Arts classroom. She took several deep breaths, making herself remember the Severus she knew, the Severus who had mentored Harry, the Severus Snape who had been forced into this position and was making the best of it.

Then she remembered Neville Longbottom and the biting hatred was hard to hold in.

/

"Neville Longbottom has suffered enough," Minerva said, standing in the middle, not of Severus' office, but of his personal living quarters above it. Severus had collapsed onto the sofa and was waiting for Kreacher to bring tea. "Severus, I do not know how much more the lad can take. He is taking the brunt of the abuse from the Carrows. He is practically asking for it, in fact. It is not like him."

"He is coming into his own, Minerva. Surely you can see it," Severus answered. He had three potions lined up on the low table in front of him. He arranged them by color—yellow then green then violet, according to the color spectrum, then choose the violet and downed it. His headache subsided almost instantly.

Minerva sank down beside him and picked up the green potion. "Calming potion?" she asked. He nodded and without asking permission she put it to her lips and downed it in one long swallow.

"For years, I wondered why that boy had been sorted into Gryffindor," she said, resting her head against the cushion behind her. "Pity it took _this_ year for me to understand." She paused, thoughtful. "Why do you make him hate you so, Severus?"

"Because they need a hero, Minerva," said Severus simply. "And he cannot be their hero unless they have a common enemy to hate." He fingered the remaining potion, the yellow one, but did not drink it. "I will not let anything catastrophic happen to him, Minerva. I can promise you that."

Minerva sighed. "He's such a good boy. He reminds me so much of his mother, at this age. Kind. Determined. She didn't really come into her own until she was his age, either. That's when Frank started noticing her."

"Harry doesn't realize what kind of champion he has in that boy," said Severus. He uncorked the yellow potion and drank it, sighing deeply.

"Muscle relaxant?" asked Minerva, eying the empty vial.

"Blood Pressure Stabilizer," said Severus. "I've been a bit…stressed…of late."

Kreacher popped in with the tea tray, served both Severus and Minerva, then quickly popped away again. Severus added a touch of milk to his tea, giving it a weak caramel color, and stirred it distractedly.

"Minerva, have you heard anything of late from Arthur and Molly?" he asked.

Minerva looked sideways at Severus. "Nothing out of the ordinary, Severus. They are still maintaining the charade that Ronald is ill and quarantined. Bill and his bride are holding down the fort at Shell Cottage. They are all planning for the eventuality of having to flee and hide, of course, because of their loyalties…"

"Wait," interrupted Severus. "They have not heard from their youngest son—from Ronald? When did you last speak with them?" He placed his teacup on its saucer on the table and turned toward Minerva.

"I spoke with Molly only yesterday," answered Minerva. "She is, of course, considering pulling Ginny from Hogwarts should things get even worse here. We speak…occasionally…so she can keep a figurative finger on the…situation." She paused as she spoke, choosing her words carefully, delivering her message as vaguely as possible.

"And Ronald? Has she heard from him?"

"She didn't mention it, Severus. I am sure she would have told me if she had. His continued absence is causing her a great deal of distress. The only thing that keeps her going, I think, is the knowledge that he's helping Harry, helping him end this horrid thing."

Severus laughed, a bitter-sounding noise.

"Ron has left Harry and Hermione," he stated. "I learned of this only last week."

Minerva's face showed her shock. "How did you learn this? Has he been captured, Severus?"

He shook his head. "No, I heard this from a friend…a reliable friend," he said, not divulging any more. "But from what you have said, it is doubtful that he has returned home. Which leads me to ask—where is he? And what is he doing?"

"Wishing he hadn't left his friends, I suspect," answered Minerva. "He'll find his way back, Severus." She smiled, though she did not in fact feel very hopeful. "He and Harry have that kind of friendship, you know. They always find their way back to each other…somehow."

She picked up her cup, and he picked up his.

"To friendship," she toasted, clicking her porcelain cup against his.

"To friendship," he echoed. "And to coming home."

/

Ginny Weasley rapped on Severus' door the last Friday in November, just on time for her detention.

Today, as in all the other Fridays she had come to his office to sit detention as he had decreed when he assigned her punishment for attempting to steal the Sword of Gryffindor, she moved her chair over to a quiet corner of his office, took out her schoolbooks and began to study.

Some evenings, they did not exchange words other than the initial greeting and dismissal. Other nights he asked her a question or two. She always answered them, methodically and clinically. Until tonight, she had never addressed him directly at all.

Until tonight.

"Sir," she said, thirty minutes after she entered. "My brother—Ron—I know where he is."

Severus' head came up instantly and he stared at her. He wanted to scream out, "Where? Where is this so-called friend that abandoned my son when he most needed a friend?" But in the end, he nodded his head once to acknowledge her statement and said, his voice low and his eyes narrowed, "I knew he left. I wondered where he had gone."

She narrowed her eyes in turn. "How did you know?" she asked, then stopped herself, remembering that this was a man in whom Harry trusted. Implicitly.

"Where is he?" asked Severus instead of answering her question.

She stared at him a moment then looked down at her book.

"At Bill's," she answered. "At Shell Cottage. My parents don't know. He'd rather they didn't."

"At Bill's," he repeated slowly. Bill Weasley. Harry's secondary guardian. "At Shell Cottage." He swallowed.

Shell Cottage—the place Harry had called home. The little spot of paradise, where Harry had learned to Occlude, had learned to drive. Where a hammock hung on a sea-facing porch and oil lamps lit the walls with flames and shadows in the evenings.

"What are his plans?" asked Severus of Ginny, because he didn't want to acknowledge that anyone other than himself and Harry now called Shell Cottage home or sanctuary.

"He'd like to go back to them," she said. "But he doesn't know where they are. According to what he told Bill, they move almost every day and put up nearly every protection ward they can think of each time. Ron doesn't know where to start looking." She swallowed. "He's calmed down now. He says he lost his mind—accused Harry and Hermione of having a thing…together." Her chin quivered only a moment. "He knows it's not true now, though. He wants to go back and see this thing through with them."

Severus glanced behind him. Albus wasn't in his portrait. He was here more often than not but on occasion did leave to see other sights. He turned back to Ginny Weasley and cleared his throat before speaking.

"If you have the opportunity, you might tell him—tell your brother—that the thing that Albus Dumbledore bequeathed him has the power to return him to his friends." She opened her mouth at once but he held up his hand. "I do not know what it is or how it works. I have only these words from the headmaster—that the item he bequeathed to Mr. Weasley holds the answer to this dilemma." He paused, then asked, "He has this item still, does he not?"

Ginny nodded. "Yes. He does. He plays with it all the time, in fact."

Severus shook his head but didn't ask. He sincerely hoped the item was not a hula hoop.

Ginny returned to her quiet studies and as the hands of the grandfather clock against the wall approached nine p.m., she gathered her belongings and stood.

"I have something to offer you," she started, "in return for the information you gave me…for Ron."

"You do not owe me anything," said Severus shortly. He looked up to see her standing, bag slung over her shoulder. She looked older to him than she had even a month ago. A certain weariness was in her eyes, but he was beginning to see that same look, perhaps a combination of weariness and wariness, in many of the students' eyes of late.

"Do you have a wireless?" she asked abruptly.

Severus glanced at the door that led up to his personal quarters. He had a small wireless there, on the table beside the sofa.

"I do," he answered.

"There's a program—put on by the Order—it's called _Potterwatch_ ," she began. "You need a password, which is given out each time they air, and it gives you a clue on when the next show is and where to tune the wireless…" she trailed off but Severus was staring at her, listening.

"Anyway, it gives news. Who's doing what, what's really going on that the papers aren't reporting." She took a step or two toward his desk and stopped. "You know, the _truth_ ," she said. She approached his desk and laid a scrap of parchment on it.

"That will get you in tonight at ten o'clock," she said. "After that, it's up to you."

She turned and left the office without another word. He picked up the piece of parchment and looked at it, memorizing the code on it and then dropping it into his desk drawer. Potterwatch. He grinned. Potterwatch. If the Dark Lord knew…

But he did not. And tonight, Severus Snape would listen to this underground program, not as a spy, not as the headmaster of Hogwarts, indeed not even as a member—in good graces or not—of the Order of the Phoenix. Tonight he would listen as a father, as Harry Potter's father, in fact: the one man in the world most interested in the welfare of the Potter they were watching.

/

The program was seven minutes in before he finally found it and successfully tuned in.

The host was obviously Lee Jordan, the Weasley twins' partner in crime during all of their Hogwarts years. Severus Snape wouldn't soon be forgetting that particular voice.

The Weasley twins made an appearance—made several appearances, in fact. Ever the ones to laugh in the face of danger, they delivered an entertaining feature—one that was probably a recurring segment—titled "Top Ten Ways to Tell if You're Married to the Dark Lord." He chuckled through "#10—Red Eye reduction feature on your camera never works when you photograph him," rolled his eyes at "#7—Family Pet is a 15' Long Venomous Snake," chuckled at "#3—You call a number he left on a piece of parchment and reach Michael Jackson's plastic surgeon," and laughed out loud at "#1—Your Driver's License says 'Mrs. He Who Must Not Be Named."

He was surprised to hear Kingsley's voice. They all had code names on the show, and "Royal" was obviously Kingsley. He knew that Kingsley was on the run somewhere but frankly hadn't thought of the man in some time. He was pleased to know he was still out there and still fighting. Kingsley was a good man, and he thought that having him behind Harry was a fortunate turn of events.

But it was the final segment that broke his heart.

Lee Jordan introduced Remus Lupin as "Romulus" and Remus gave a heartfelt message to Harry, and to all those fighting against the Ministry and against the Dark Lord.

"My wife is having a baby," he said. "And the way it looks now, that baby boy is going to be born in the middle of a war. And I want you to know, Harry, that when this is all over, when the Dark Lord is gone and you're sailing that boat around the world or lying on that beach in Fiji drinking rum out of a coconut or playing Quidditch for England or doing any one of the thousands of little painless, everyday things you deserve to be doing right now, I'm going to sit my son on my knee and tell him what a great man his godfather is. I'm going to tell him that he's here because his godfather set out to right an unrightable wrong and to make our world whole again. Harry, we miss you. You take care of yourself. Keep your head low, Harry. Keep your head low."

Then Lupin began to sing.

Until that moment, Severus could not have said whether Lupin had a good voice or one that wasn't memorable at all. But he sat there, in his quarters, staring at the wireless on the table, listening to Remus Lupin's rich baritone sing the words of the song from _Man of La Mancha_ , the Quest, the Impossible Dream. Once his song. And Albus' song. Now Harry's song.

_To dream the impossible dream_

_To fight the unbeatable foe_

_To bear with unbearable sorrow_

_To run where the brave dare not go_

_To right the unrightable wrong_

_To love pure and chaste from afar_

_To try when your arms are too weary_

_To reach the unreachable star_

_This is my quest_

_To follow that star_

_No matter how hopeless_

_No matter how far_

_To fight for the right without question or pause_

_To be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause_

_And I know if I'll only be true to this glorious quest_

_That my heart will lie peaceful and calm_

_When I'm laid to my rest_

_And the world will be better for this_

_That one man scorned and covered with scars_

_Still strove with his last ounce of courage_

_To reach the unreachable star._

What was his impossible dream now? A dream of home? Of a future?

The song applied to him in so many ways. His love for Lily, pure and chaste from afar. The unbearable sorrow, once for Lily, now for his son.

The unbeatable foe.

The unrightable wrong.

The unreachable star.

He had always imagined it would be he, marching into that hell for his heavenly cause. And while he supposed that in a way, he was living in his hell now, he knew that Harry's hell must be worse, even though their heavenly cause was now, in the end, the same.

The radio show was ending now, and all the voices were singing together, one more chorus of the song.

He almost missed the code given out at the end, the key to finding the show again next time around. He wrote it down on the corner of a piece of parchment and slipped it under the clock on his mantel.

He wondered again if the Dark Lord knew anything about this show.

Then he wondered if Harry did.


	5. December 1 - 25, 1997

Chapter 5

December 1 - 25, 1997

Christmas season at Hogwarts this year was not the usual month of distracted and exuberant children, overdone decorations, caroling suits of armor and charmed mistletoe dancing about over the heads of the staff at the faculty table. Severus realized that if he hadn't insisted that some decoration be raised, the castle might have continued in its drab winter raiment without anyone quite noticing or, if they did notice, caring enough to do something to remedy the bleak situation.

On the first Saturday of December, Hagrid, on Severus' orders, made his yearly foray into the Forbidden Forest, cut down and brought into the Great Hall the traditional twelve Christmas trees and the faculty, led by a less-than-enthusiastic Filius Flitwick, decorated them with a paucity of baubles and fairy lights. In fact, the riotous decorations of previous years were tuned down to such an extent that walking into the Great Hall felt a bit like walking into the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest where the trees were not dense and the underbrush largely nonexistent.

Midway through the following week, someone took it upon himself or herself to further decorate one of the trees.

It had happened in the middle of the night, it seemed, and was discovered by the earliest-rising of the children, mainly Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, during breakfast the next morning. Severus was not the first staff member to enter the Great Hall, and Minerva, Filius, Poppy and even Horace were all seated at the head table, calmly drinking their tea or coffee or spreading jam on toast, seemingly ignoring the students gathered around the tree, pointing to some of its highest branches and talking excitedly among themselves.

He looked up at the head table as he came forward from the back of the hall, but not one of his professors would look up to meet his eyes. He walked around the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables and approached a particularly large Christmas tree filling up the entirety of a natural recess in the wall. The students startled when they saw the feared headmaster and dispatched themselves quickly back to their tables without Severus having to say a word.

He stared at the tree silently for several long moments. He knew, he absolutely knew, that every eye in the Great Hall was upon him, watching him, waiting for his reaction.

He flicked his hand and his wand fell from its inner sleeve pocket into his outstretched hand.

He regarded the tree one moment more. Harry's face, Harry's image cut out of _The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, Witch Weekly,_ Harry's face from the Hogwarts yearbooks, bent over a broom chasing the Snitch, wind whipping his hair, dancing with one of the Patil twins at the Yule Ball, laughing with his friends in the courtyard. Each picture was cut out and affixed to stiff parchment. A strand of gold ribbon was tied to the top of each handmade ornament and looped to a branch of the tree.

Harry Potter, growing before his eyes from awkward eleven-year-old first year to a sixteen-year-old young man, silent and introspective, shoulders hunched with the oppressive weight of the Wizarding world.

Harry with Hagrid. Harry with Albus.

Severus closed his eyes, flicked his wand, muttered the spell.

The ornaments incinerated, each one crumbling into puffs of dust and ash, leaving the tree nearly barren and faintly singed.

Severus turned away, face set in a practiced scowl, and took his seat at the head table without a single word. His heart was breaking. It seemed a sacrilege to do what he had just done, an act of senseless destruction and finality. But he knew that erasing Harry's countenance from Hogwarts did not remove Harry. Someone had decorated that tree. Someone who loved Harry, who believed in him. Someone brave. Someone who still had hope.

/

Severus tried never to miss a night of _Potterwatch_. On the rare occasions when he was forced to, when the Dark Lord or the Ministry interrupted his new obsession with an obligatory meeting or a spur-of-the-moment summoning, he would call Ginny Weasley to his office and gaze at her fixedly until she gave him the code for the next broadcast.

Her detentions continued every Friday, and he learned that Ron was still at Shell Cottage with Bill, that her parents still did not know his whereabouts, and that he was still trying to get back to Harry and Hermione. He understood how the Deluminator would take him to his friends, but the timing had to be perfect so he could pinpoint their position before they had put the wards up around the tent and the surrounding woods.

The Hogwarts Express left the school on December 20th. Luna Lovegood never made it home. She was taken by Death Eaters from the train itself and held hostage at Malfoy Manor, living inspiration—but for how long?—for her father to stop supporting Harry Potter and publishing the truth in his odd periodical.

Two weeks before Christmas, _Potterwatch_ started "The Twelve Days of Yule—Hogwarts Potterwatch Version." Severus would rather have not had to listen to Fred and George Weasley's untrained but enthusiastic voices belt out the altered words to the traditional carol, but the information behind the lyrics was worth the suffering. He learned that he was "The Greasy Git in the Owlery" and had, at his beck and call, "Two Cruel Carrows" who were opposed by "Three Student Captains"—readily identified by him as Longbottom, Ginevra Weasley and the Lovegood girl, though he quietly and privately reduced them to two. The "Four Fearless Founders" were an easy fill-in. "Five Hidden Tunnels." Hmmm. He had thought there were only four, and all of them blocked. Interesting. "Six Eyes in Hogsmeade." Three people, then, watching the castle. He wished there were more. "Seven Mermen Waiting." Had the Order actually succeeded in an alliance with the elusive merpeople? Impossible. "Eight Centaurs Watching." That was more likely. "Nine Loyal Teachers." Severus did a quick count—Minerva, Sprout, Flitwick, Hagrid, Vector, Hooch, Pomfrey (technically not a teacher but he wasn't arguing semantics), Slughorn, Trelawney, Sinistra, Pince, Binns and the Carrows. Fourteen, fifteen if you threw in Filch. He saved that one for later contemplation. "Ten Barn Owls Hooting" was more filler. "Eleven House-Elves Spying." He managed to chuckle, thinking of the spying he had Kreacher doing.

"Twelve Treacle Tarts." On that twelfth day, on Christmas Eve, he put his head in his hands and cried.

/

He had arranged to spend Christmas Eve with Minerva. Nearly everyone had gone home; the castle had been closed to the children and places found for those few that could not—for one reason or another—go home for the holidays. Even the Carrows had vacated the castle, preferring to spend what they thought might be a more pampered holiday at Malfoy Manor. After composing himself following the nightly edition of _Potterwatch_ —which had just finished an unusual twelve-day Christmas run—he rode the spiral staircase down to the second floor and walked unhurriedly to Minerva's office, hands clasped behind his back in his customary posture.

His footsteps, boots now comfortably worn in, echoed in the silent hallways. He maintained his formidable composure out of habit—there was no one left here, at least no one not on the _Potterwatch_ "loyal" list—to call him out, but it was easier to stay within the façade and not risk accidental exposure. He found himself thinking of a day exactly one year earlier, when he and Harry had visited the Weasleys, when they had played Wizarding Monopoly, when he had challenged Ron Weasley to a game of chess—and lost. When he had stood in front of the entire assembled Weasley family and worked that ridiculous hula hoop around and around his body. When they'd Flooed back to Shell Cottage and Harry had fallen asleep on the couch under that ridiculous tartan throw.

He wondered where Harry was tonight. If he were warm enough. If there would be any presents at all at the foot of his bed in the morning. If he even knew it was Christmas.

A sound startled him, and he recognized it as a kind of hollow, metallic sort of singing. He almost smiled. Someone, likely Minerva, had charmed the suits of armor to sing. Interesting that she had waited until all the children were out of the castle to do so. He hummed along with the faint song for a moment before slowing, an odd look on his face.

He knew the song only because Johnny Cash, one of the few American artists he had followed, had done a version of it. It was usually sung at Christmas, a hymn to the Christ Child, but was a traditional African-American spiritual song. He turned his head, listening intently, and moved toward the source. Who would have charmed the Hogwarts armor to sing _that_ song? Who at Hogwarts would even know it?

The chorus started again.

_"Children go where I send thee,_

_How shall I send thee?_

_Oh, I'm gonna send thee six by six,_

_Six for the six who took the Carrows' licks,_

_Five for the five who wanted to stay alive,_

_Four for the four who couldn't take no more,_

_Three for the Hogwarts children,_

_Two for Ron and Hermione,_

_One for the little bitty baby,_

_House falling down around him,_

_Crying in his little bed,_

_Born, born, born in Godric's Hollow."_

He stood there frozen, listening as the song played itself out then started over again, counting down from twelve exactly as “The Twelve Days of Christmas” on _Potterwatch_ had, but this song, this version, was so starkly plaintive, so full of the children’s voices, that it enraged him. It unbound his tightly lashed heart, dissolved the control from his carefully Occluded mind and removed the blinders from his twelve o'clock eyes, pointing forward, seeing nothing.

"Shut up!" he screamed, stumbling forward, taking a suit of armor by the shoulders and shaking it ineffectively. The visor rattled and the knight shook on its plinth. The singing continued, fainter, ethereal. He punched the armor in its gut, if gut it had, bruising his hand. The pain felt good. Real. Solid. He punched it again and fell to his knees.

_"Nine for the nine who were waiting for a sign…"_

He felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him backward.

"Severus, enough. Severus!" the voice soothed. A hand rubbed his back, making soothing circles on it.

_"One for the little bitty baby…"_

"Come, Severus." He turned, still on his knees, to find Minerva behind him. He reached up blindly to hug her, burying his face in her middle as she patted his back, petted his hair.

"I know, Severus. I know…"

/

"Do you know what it is?"

Severus regarded the rock in his hand, the rock he had just removed from a gift box.

"Well, it's not a bottle of scotch," he said, looking up at Minerva curiously.

"No, it's not. And it will last a lot longer and ultimately do you a lot more good."

He fingered the stone in his hand. It was a substantial weight, oblong but irregular in shape, black and smooth. It fit comfortably into one hand. "Well, what is it then?" he asked.

"It's a worry stone," answered Minerva. "My father gave one to each of us when we got ready to leave home. He told us to press all of our worries into that stone every night. The more worries we pressed into it, the shinier it would become. We used to joke that my mother could turn a piece of coal into a diamond with all the worries she gave it."

He turned the stone over in his hand, rubbing it with his thumb. He squeezed it, felt its weight, put it in his pocket and wrapped his hand around it there.

He smiled at Minerva, a truly grateful smile.

"Thank you, Minerva. It's perfect. Just exactly what I needed."

He presented to her an old and excellent bottle of scotch, purloined from the store at Malfoy Manor, and her tired, careworn face lit up. She beamed at him as she poured equal measures for each of them, and they toasted each other quietly before her fire.

"That song…" he began at last, working on a second measure of scotch and feeling the heat of it warm him from within while the fire warmed the cold castle room.

She sighed. "It's been playing on and off in this corridor for more than a week, Severus. I have managed, by force of will, to decrease the volume at which it is sung, but it simply will not stop. The children seem to take solace from it. Many of them have taken to humming it almost as a quiet cry to arms."

"I never noticed." He stared into his glass, mind too relaxed, no longer as sharp as he required it to be.

"You wouldn't have," she said sagely.

"Where do you suppose Harry is?" he asked, glancing at her as he drained his glass and set it carefully on the table before him.

"I suppose he is safe," she said. "And I hope he is warm. And dry. I suppose he is missing you tonight, Severus."

"As I am missing him."

They sat together in silence until Severus spoke again.

"I would have liked to have sent him something. I doubt he had the presence of mind to take with him the fur-lined cape I gave him last Christmas."

"Seeing as how he fled in August, I don't think it was lack of presence of mind," stated Minerva.

"The Weasley boy will find him soon. It will be a Christmas present for him."

Minerva smiled. "Two for Ron and Hermione," she said. "I like that line."

"Three for the Hogwarts Children," sighed Severus. "What am I doing to them, Minerva?"

"You are doing all you are able to, to protect them, Severus. Even Filius is beginning to come around. Do not sell yourself short. Do not let a song undo you."

They sat together watching the crackling fire.

"They've captured the Lovegood girl," he said after a lengthy silent. "Taken her to Malfoy Manor. She is being held there until her father renounces his support of Harry and ceases publication of his paper."

"Oh, Severus," breathed Minerva, falling back against the sofa cushions. "She is all that poor man has left. The light in his eyes, and that is no exaggeration. How could they do that?" she mused.

Beside her, Severus hissed. Then he groaned, right hand grasping at his left forearm.

"Holy Merlin, he's mad," he sputtered, standing up and charging for the door.

"Severus!"

He ran to his room at near breakneck speed, grabbed a Sober-up Potion and his robes and mask, downed the potion, then Flooed from his office directly to _The Three Broomsticks_ and Apparated from there to the Dark Lord's side.

Fortunately, he was not the last, though a good number of the Dark Lord's closest followers were already staying at Malfoy Manor.

They were gathered in the ballroom, not the formal banquet room this time, and Pettigrew was writhing on the floor when Severus stepped into his place in the circle, mind carefully Occluded. The Dark Lord turned suddenly, lashing out indiscriminately, or so it seemed, at Nott. Nott, too, writhed in pain, unable to contain his screaming, though he bit nearly all the way through his lip in his attempts.

_What the hell had happened?_

The Dark Lord did not work out his anger until another dozen had fallen to the Cruciatus. Severus dodged the bullet. This time.

Finally, finally, Bellatrix, another of the lucky ones, dared to ask.

"What has happened, my lord? How have we failed you?"

She was a master at phrasing her questions. Severus had to give her that.

The Dark Lord whirled on her, eyes blazing red, snorting through that pittance of a nose, looking even less human in his anger than he did when he was calm, eating a meal, petting his snake.

"I had him! I had him in my clutches! Just there—in front of me. Yet he escaped!"

"Who, my lord? Who escaped?" asked Bellatrix, kneeling before her master, suppliant, her voice soothing, smoothing his robes with her manicured hands.

He stared at her a long moment, taking deep breaths; deigned to look around at his other supporters, the Death Eaters who grew in number daily now, though only the oldest and most loyal were allowed in this inner sanctum. He turned back to Bella and hissed out a name.

"Harry Potter."

Severus felt his knees weaken. _No!_ He could not compromise himself… Harry… Hogwarts. He schooled his expression, strengthened his Occlumency shields, uttered foolish nonsense, protests, along with nearly all the gathered supporters of the irate Dark Lord.

"Where, my lord? Where did he escape? I will go there—find him, hunt him down and bring him to you. How dare he? How dare he _not_ bow to your command?"

"I will go too, my lord!"

"And I!"

A chorus of voices joined the first volunteers, Severus forcing himself to step forward as well, to raise his voice with the others.

"Silence!"

The room quieted.

"It is too late. He and the Mudblood with him Apparated. But we will double the watch. We will more than double it. And you will be called, my loyal servants…" He walked around inside the circle, a caricature of a general inspecting his troops, stopping before some, scowling, nodding, standing at last before Severus, looking him in the eye.

"You will go there, Severus. To watch the house lest he return tonight. You are not needed at the school, am I correct?"

Severus bowed his head. "No, my lord. I am not needed at the school this night." He raised his head again. "And thank you, my lord. I will go at once. Where is this house I must watch?"

Voldemort's face contorted into what might have once been a cruel smile, but now held only the cruel and none of the smile.

"Didn't I say already?" He looked around at his followers. "No?" He turned back to Severus. "To Godric's Hollow, Severus. To the Potters’ home there. Where it should have ended sixteen years ago. Now go."

Severus bowed low, extremely low, then spun and strode from the room, directly out the front door, to the paved walk where the white peacocks scurried out of his way. He turned on the spot and Apparated, stomach in his shoes, mind frozen, eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

/

He would learn later, days later, that Harry and Hermione had been lured to Bathilda Bagshot's home by Voldemort's snake, Nagini, animating Bathilda's long-dead body. They had escaped at the last moment, nearly too late, and the snake had bitten Harry before they managed to Apparate away.

But tonight, standing outside the wreckage of the Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow, Severus did not know what had brought Harry to this place or how he had almost been captured and killed.

Godric's Hollow! What was the boy thinking? Why come to this place, of all places? Would the Dark Lord dare to hide something as important as a Horcrux in a place that reminded him of his nearly utter defeat sixteen years earlier?

He shuddered and wrapped his cloak around himself more tightly as he remembered his promise to bring Harry to see his parents' graves. He suspected that Harry had fulfilled that quest on his own tonight, on Christmas Eve, while the choir sang carols in the church by the graveyard _(Four for the four who couldn't take no more…)_ and the snow fell softly on his hair, wetting his glasses on the outside while the tears wet his eyes under those glasses.

Severus' eyes rose again, staring at the house, this house, that had been Harry's first home and Lily's last. The cottage had been small and cozy, but quaint, well-made, sturdy with a fenced yard and shade trees and a stone bench in the side yard. The fence may have kept out neighborhood dogs but it hadn't protected them ultimately against the evil that was abroad, nor the evil in their own circle of friends.

Severus pushed open the gate. It squeaked but yielded. The commemorative plaque rose up and he stared at it in surprise, then quickly walked around it toward the front porch. He cast a Disillusionment Spell upon himself, then a Stabilization Charm on the rickety planks of the splintered porch.

Why was this house even standing, still?

The door opened easily for him and he stepped into utter darkness and memories as clear as day, as dead as his heart now felt.

He lit his wand and found the sofa, cleared it of rubble—plaster from the ceiling, the bits of fluff left by mice—cast a Scourgify. He took a step closer to the sofa to inspect it further and nearly jumped out of his skin as a long "Mooooooooooo" sounded, high-pitched, a slow exhalation of a long-held breath.

He pointed his wand at the floor to illuminate a small plushie, a toy cow, half under his well-shined boot. He stared at it for a long while, then bent to pick it up and put it in his pocket.

He felt the worry stone there and clutched it, sat down slowly and used his wand again to cast a Warming Charm.

Harry would not come back here. Harry had not been here to begin with. The snow on the porch had not been disturbed. He remembered that now.

It was already long past midnight, already Christmas morning as the calendar showed, and he sat here, sometimes staring forward, sometimes with eyes pressed closed and head dropped back.

Once he thought he heard a sound, but it was nothing, or nothing of consequence at least. Another time he imagined a smell wafting by his nose, Lily's perfume. But he awoke from that dream and there was nothing but dust and mold.

He waited 'til light broke in the eastern sky, waited longer until the sun rose above the horizon. He stood, then, and looked around this skeleton of a house, noticed the snow on the stairway where the roof was gone, the light of day breaking into the magically preserved house. A mausoleum. A house frozen in time with its purpose served, its family dead, its secrets revealed.

This house had been Harry's home, but it had not made Harry. He had no memories of this place save a vague sort of Dementor-induced terror of green light and a woman screaming. He didn't remember being rocked by the fireside, baths in the old-fashioned bathtub, his father flying his food to his birdlike mouth on a spoon-turned-flying-broomstick.

No, Harry had been made by sterner stuff than this.

By nights spent in a cupboard.

By adults he could not trust.

By events he could not control.

By quests he must fulfill, lest the world be destroyed.

And by softer things. A hammock on a porch. A bubble of cocooning water. The press of lips from a red-headed girl. A leather seat in a small green sports car. The cautious step of a youthful doe.

Severus closed his eyes and Apparated back to the gates of Hogwarts.

It was Christmas. Harry was waking up this morning—though Severus did not know it—after a night of fitful sleep, to learn that his wand, holly with a phoenix feather core, eleven inches long, nice and supple, was broken.

Far to the south, Ron Weasley was waking up, determined that this day would be the one when he would find his friends.

Severus opened the gates and began the slow walk up, through a sparkling blanket of newly fallen snow, to the castle doors.

Minerva was there, waiting. She held the door open, stood aside while he walked in, then closed the door behind him.


	6. December 26, 1997 - January 31, 1998

Chapter 6

December 26, 1997 – January 31, 1998

"They're in the Forest of Dean! I heard the girl say it!"

Severus whirled around in his chair, facing the portrait of Phineas Nigellus. The old headmaster was virtually trembling in excitement. He reminded Severus of a nervous Hufflepuff about to be sorted.

"In Gloucestershire?" Severus asked quickly. He didn't notice that his ink bottle had tipped over and was spilling out onto the Ministry document he had been trying to disseminate.

"This is the time, Severus. You must go at once," said Albus immediately in his too-thin voice. He was at the front of his portrait, ineffectively trying to lean out to get Severus' attention, looking like a caged lion with no room to pace.

Severus stood, facing Albus this time. "That forest must be at least one hundred square kilometers in size," he mused. "Saying they are in 'The Forest of Dean' is no more specific than saying they are somewhere in Glasgow. It is not enough."

"You will be able to find them, Severus, at this time of year. The trees are leafless and there will be none of the usual tourists on holiday. Use the standard location spells."

"The girl is good…" Phineas Nigellus' voice, nasal and haughty, rose from the other side.

"What do you mean?" asked Severus, now facing Nigellus.

"They were camping some weeks ago beside a river. Some wizards and goblins—on the run, mind you—came by and even fished the river and never noticed our little band of runaways." Phineas picked his nose, not too discreetly. Severus had noticed that many of the portraits had lost their social graces as time went on.

He glanced back at Albus, his look a silent question.

"Then you must use one of the not-so-standard spells, Severus." Portrait Albus stared at him a long moment. "You have saved something, haven't you? For just such an occasion? Hair, at least?"

"Dark Magic?" Nigellus' voice rose up again. "Albus, are you proposing that the headmaster of Hogwarts use Dark Magic to locate the boy? Oh, this is rich, rich indeed! I thought I would never again see the day…"

"Shut up," hissed Severus as he made his way to the door up to his quarters. He turned when he reached it, pointing sternly at the gloating painted face of the former Slytherin headmaster. "But keep your _ears_ open."

/

A rather large vial of his own blood, taken from a vein in the crook of his elbow; several hairs from Harry's head, saved purposely from his hairbrush months and months ago; the burned ashes from something they both had touched often. Several drops of his own sweat—not essential to the potion, nor even called for specifically, but as they rolled down his nose and into the small cauldron and were certainly viable in such an elixir, he let them be. The entire mixture boiled and condensed, then poured over an eagle-owl feather quill. The quill turned into a Portkey.

Under a Disillusionment Spell, holding the Sword of Gryffindor beneath his heavy cloak, after nightfall on Boxing Day, 1997, under the careful watch of the previous headmasters—some of them approving, some of them not—Severus touched the Portkey and disappeared from his office.

He landed in a grove of trees in utter darkness, nothing more than a gut feeling giving him confidence that he was close to Harry's camp or indeed, in the Forest of Dean at all. He scanned his surroundings in the dim moonlight, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, getting his bearings and formulating a plan on the fly. A place for the sword first. Albus had explained that it was important that Harry win the sword valiantly, that he not just be handed it. He would be better able to master it this way, to use it effectively. The destruction of Horcruxes, even with an object as magical as the Sword of Gryffindor, was no easy task. He must prove his worth as a Gryffindor to truly own the sword of its founder.

Severus came upon a pond only a few minutes' walk away and stood on its bank, looking out over the frozen surface. The water appeared fairly deep in the center—certainly Harry would have to submerse himself to reach it. He rejected that idea immediately; it was freezing out here. The boy would catch his death of pneumonia. Did he have clean, dry clothes to put on afterward? Would he remember to do a drying Spell? A warming charm? Severus glanced around—perhaps in the top of a tree? Embedded in the trunk so that it would have to be extracted from the grip of living wood, an Arthurian challenge in wood instead of rock.

In the end, daunted himself by the height of the trees and not knowing whether Harry had his broom, he went back to the pond, looked at it resolutely, used his wand to melt the ice in the center, and Levitated the sword out over the hole and down into the water until it settled on the bottom. A second wave of the wand, and the hole iced over. A third, and the ice on the whole body of water took on a greater clarity. Even in this faint moonlight, Severus could see the rubies glinting on the submerged sword, the dying embers of a forgotten fire.

He slowly retraced his steps, trying not to doubt himself. He would remain, of course. He would stay hidden, out of sight, an echo in the darkness, a shadow in the trees. He would watch to assure himself that the task was completed, that Harry was safe and warm and dry and whole before he left. At the point where the Portkey had deposited him he stood and turned in place, scrutinizing the surrounding terrain until his eyes settled on a a small, protected clearing, out of the wind, at the foot of several particularly large trees. Had the leaves here been disturbed? Were there fewer fallen limbs than in the area just around it? It was difficult to tell in the near darkness, but he chanced it. A moment later, a non-verbal spell produced his Patronus, brighter in this dark wood than he ever recalled seeing it. He stood behind a wide tree, as still as the ground below him, and delivered his will to the silvery doe. It moved forward, step by tentative step, until Harry stepped out of nothingness, meters away from the doe, staring at it with his wand raised. His eyes…Severus could clearly make out the hope in his eyes, shining bright from the ethereal light of the Patronus.

"Severus?" He looked around quickly, eyes darting back into the trees behind the doe, to the sides, turning to look behind him. "Severus?" His voice was hoarse and desperate, rising on the first syllable, falling on the last. Severus ached to step out from behind the tree and acknowledge the boy. He could not. He must not. It would not help either of them. It would only make it more difficult in the end. He wished, oh how he wished, he could really be sure of that. The sword won under hardship…this, this should ensure Harry's success with the weapon if nothing else did.

"Oh…right…" Harry looked up again, scanning the woods. "You might not be here—I know you don't have to be. You might have just sent her with a message." The hope in his voice broke, breaking Severus' heart. Harry took a step toward the doe, then another. Directed by Severus' will, she moved away, toward the pond, turning her head back to Harry, stopping to wait for him, silently beckoning.

Splitting his attention was deceptively difficult. The doe lit up her surroundings with the resonant glow of a full moon, illuminating Harry's features. His unshaven face, his unkempt hair. Red, sleepless eyes. He was haggard, thinner than he'd been in June, by half a stone at least. Severus moved silently, staying out of sight, until Harry stood beside the frozen pond. He almost came undone at the sound that came from Harry when the doe, its mission accomplished, dissolved into a formless silver mist.

"No! Severus!" Harry whirled on the spot, turning in a full circle, wand out and lit with a non-verbal Lumos so bright that Severus could see the acorns on the ground as it passed over. As he turned, the wand caught the reflection of the sword. Immediately, thankfully, the sword had all of Harry's attention.

He watched as Harry tried to summon the weapon, grimaced as the boy removed his clothes—he was thinner even than Severus had thought—and used a spell to break the ice. Harry tossed the wand casually aside, on top of his clothes, and a moment later plunged into the pond and disappeared underwater.

_He can swim,_ thought Severus. _I swam with him that summer._

Severus counted to himself, slowly, and by the time he reached sixty he knew something was wrong. He didn't think twice—took a dozen frantic desperate steps toward the pond, cursing under his breath, wand out to summon the child from the pond if that's what it took or vanish all the water or, Merlin help him, cast a Bubblehead Charm on himself. He had not broken out of the cover of the woods when he heard crashing footsteps, as quiet as a rampaging bull moose. Someone had gotten there first.

"Harry! Harry—what the hell?"

Where in Merlin's sweet and holy name had Weasley come from? The idiot boy flung himself, fully clothed, into the pond and after a heart-stopping pair of minutes and more struggling underwater than Severus ever wanted to experience again in his life, vicariously or not, Weasley was pushing Harry out onto the frozen forest floor and crawling out himself, struggling to his own feet. He held the Sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the locket in the other. He stood, panting, dripping rivulets of freezing water onto Harry below him.

Damn it! Why wasn't he helping Harry? Severus dug his nails into the tree, crumbling bark digging up under them, wanting to curse the stupid child, as Harry fought to sit up, gasping, and clumsily began to put his clothes back on, trembling and shaking, but absolutely, decidedly, joyfully and unmistakably alive.

The reunion, the talk about the doe, wondering if this sword was the real one—how in the hell did they know there were two?—both boys shining illuminated wands into the forest, Snape standing stone still. Harry's insistence that Ron be the one to use the sword to destroy the locket.

Severus, transfixed, mouth agape, watching the Horcrux fight to stay alive. Fighting dirty, with vitriol, stirring up the doubts, the fears, the poison in the boy's brain. Would each Horcrux fight like this? Would they fight harder the fewer there were? Severus was counting again. He'd let it go to sixty, then Stupefy both of them and destroy the damn thing himself.

But ultimately, the deed was done. The Horcrux was destroyed, Ron was forgiven and Severus followed them, from his distance, back to the campsite.

He thought Ron very much deserved the beating he got from Hermione.

/

"Well? Is it done?"

Severus dropped his cloak onto the chair in front of his desk and looked at Albus.

"It is done." He turned away and moved toward the door to his quarters.

"Severus?"

He stopped, turned. "Yes, Albus?" he answered quietly. It would not do to wake all of the portraits.

"How is Harry, Severus?"

"Mr. Weasley has found his way back, Albus." He turned away again, stopped again.

"But how is he, Severus? How _is_ Harry?"

Severus turned around and faced the portrait. "Harry is alive, Albus." He took half a step closer, sighed. He did not want to do this, to form the words, to express them. "He is older, thinner, he needs a shave. But his hair is just as messy and he is ever as much the foolish idiotic brash reckless…" he gulped, inhaled, "…Gryffindor…"

His voice trailed off as he turned and walked out the door.

/

He already had a headache when Lucius Malfoy Flooed into his office just before New Year's Eve. Perhaps it was the Irish coffee he had had with Minerva the night before, as he told her of Harry and his friends and the glimpse he had had of their life on the run, or perhaps it was the new directives from the Ministry on special "reorientation" of mixed-ancestry students—but the fact of the matter was that his head ached and he had not yet called Kreacher and asked him to fetch a Headache Potion, extra strong. Or maybe two.

Lucius was polite enough to announce his impending visit via a Floo call first, but did nothing more than verify that Severus was indeed in his office before appearing in a twirling cloud inside the fireplace and stepping elegantly out of it, odious serpent cane in his hands.

"You are needed at Malfoy Manor, Severus," he said at once.

"You could have delivered that message through a Floo call, Lucius," answered Severus without looking up from his scrolls.

"I thought it prudent to speak with you first," he answered, walking purposefully over to the desk and tapping his cane on it.

Severus lifted his eyes.

"I am busy, Lucius. State your business."

"There has been another…escape."

Severus was relieved he was looking down so his eyes showed neither surprise nor dismay as his stomach sank into his boots and his heart beat double-speed. Escape could only mean one thing…one person.

"Escape?" he drawled, replacing his virtual mask and leaning back in his chair. "Potter again?" Though impossible, he thought he could hear Albus' portrait chair scraping behind him.

"Exactly. Fortunately, this time there is someone to blame. Two someones, in fact. Selwyn and Travers."

"Do tell," said Severus, steepling his hands and managing to look impatient. Selwyn and Travers had risen in ranks of late and would find their abrupt halt in ascent rather hard to swallow.

Lucius sat down, uninvited, and removed his gloves, loosening them finger by finger before pulling them off. The gloves were lined with fur. _Probably ferret_ , mused Severus. He noted that Lucius' hands were no longer the hands of an aristocrat: red and rough instead of alabaster and smooth.

"They were at Lovegood's. He turned them in—as he was instructed to do—but they managed to escape before Selwyn and Travers could grab them. Blasted out right through the floor and Disapparated. They were seen—there can be no mistake."

In his lap, Severus' hands twitched. Hard. It was the only sign he gave that the news was unexpected, and that it was the almost-capture that was unwelcome, not the unlooked-for escape.

"What were they doing at Lovegood's?" he drawled, scooting in with feigned lack of interest and resuming his perusal of the document.

"It was Potter, Severus," said Lucius, shaking his head. He glanced around the office, eyes coming to rest on the sideboard with the scotch. He stood up, walked over and poured himself a drink without invitation. Severus raised an eyebrow.

"Go on."

"He was obviously there to save the girl—Lovegood's daughter. Fortunately, she's rather thoroughly locked up in the dungeons at Malfoy Manor with the other prisoners. If we could find a way to get this information to Potter, we could lay a trap for him there—deliver him to the Dark Lord promptly and…" He paused, looking significantly at Severus.

"And what? You'll have your Manor back to yourself? Your wife back in your bed?"

Lucius bristled. He took a step forward. "What makes you think…?" His voice trailed off as he looked over Severus' shoulder to find Albus Dumbledore's half-size portrait staring at him, head cocked, listening to every word. He snarled at the former headmaster and returned his gaze to Severus. "You have no business in affairs with my wife…"

Severus let out a genuine guffaw. "You choose your words well, Lucius," he said with a smirk.

"You must help with this, Severus."

Severus let out a long breath. "What do you think I can do? I have no way of getting information to Potter. Why don't you go capture yourself an Order member and give the message to them? Where's Shacklebolt these days?"

"He has disappeared, and you know that," snapped Lucius. "Besides, you have the Weasley girl." He leaned in. "She _must_ know something. _Someone_ must know…"

"You are not the first one to ask me to interrogate the blood traitor," commented Severus. "She knows nothing," he added, dismissively.

"Oh? And you know that because…?" asked his visitor, sneering delicately.

Severus raised his head and caught Lucius' eye. Stole into his mind with malicious purpose. Implanted an image of the Weasley girl undergoing a bruising bout of Legilimency with an aperitif of the Cruciatus.

All false, of course. But then again, Severus was a master at the art.

It took Lucius a long minute before he was able to break away. He stood up, shaking.

"Why am I needed at Malfoy Manor again, Lucius?" asked Severus, bored.

"Because if you are there you will avoid the pain of being summoned," hissed Malfoy. "Because the Dark Lord will be punishing Selwyn and Travers and would like his _loyal_ followers to be in attendance."

The two stared at each other as the clock ticked on the wall behind Severus. At last, he slowly rose to his feet.

"Well then," he said, reaching behind him to get his cloak. "Let's get going, shall we? I wouldn't want to miss the party."

/

January blew in with a cold and a fury that Severus didn't remember having experienced in all of his time at Hogwarts. Phineas Nigellus had, at least, delivered the message early on that Harry was safe after the near escape from the Lovegood place and, very late one night, not long before the students were to return for their second term, he had a long and quiet conversation with the boy, through Phineas as always. But this night, Phineas was more amiable than usual, perhaps because he had been up to visit the Fat Lady and Violet and had partaken of a few too many glasses of eggnog.

"Ask him if he was injured at all," directed Severus. "While escaping from the Lovegood place."

"He was not," returned Phineas a minute later. "He would like to know if you were in the forest when he retrieved the sword."

Severus stared at Phineas and Phineas stared right back at Severus, with all the patience of a painted person who has nothing better to do with his time than engage in staring contests.

"Tell him yes. I was."

Phineas turned away without comment and came back quickly.

"He would have liked to have seen you. He thinks it not fair that you saw him and he did not at least have assurance that you are well. And he says to tell you that they destroyed the locket, if you didn't already know."

Severus smiled thoughtfully. "Tell him this. Tell him I say 'Imagine.'"

Phineas obediently left his frame. He came back with a statement and a question. "You are making the boy cry, now, Headmaster. This is becoming very uncomfortable for me. I am not Mercury, nor am I Hermes," he grumbled. Then he remembered the question. "He would like to know where his friend Luna Lovegood is located." Phineas made as if to whistle distractedly. Severus wanted to slap him.

"Tell him I do not know," he instructed, hating the fact that he had to lie but not regretting it one bit. "Ask him where they are located now."

Phineas answer was not surprising, as much as it burned.

"He says he doesn't know," he answered. Then he walked out of his frame and was gone.

/

By the end of January, the first students had disappeared.

After grilling the Carrows to assure himself that they hadn't—accidentally or intentionally—permanently disposed of anyone through overzealous use of the Cruciatus, he directed Kreacher's spying activities to the seventh floor.

The Carrows were livid. Their favorite target, Neville Longbottom, was gone.

And yet, he wasn't.

He'd show up in Transfiguration class, or Charms, Herbology. Always when the Carrows were in their own classes, and always for the class period only, disappearing afterward. He never ate meals in the Great Hall.

Severus routinely accused the Carrows of killing the boy, a pure-blood wizard from an old family. He openly accosted other Gryffindors in the corridors, demanding to know Longbottom's location.

No one spilled. Not one.

He told Kreacher to make sure the house-elves were supplying everyone in the castle with food. Everyone.

Minerva quit taking roll for her seventh-year classes. Pomona and Filius soon followed suit.

Someone charmed the professor's desk and chair in the Dark Arts classroom to make a sound approximating a rude bout of flatulence whenever the furniture was touched. A few days later, the Muggle Studies classroom door barked out "Muggle Lover" whenever a Slytherin or a Carrow crossed the threshold. On January 31st, the Great Hall erupted in laughter, a sound Severus could now say he actually missed, when Alecto Carrow sat on her chair at the faculty table and it promptly collapsed, sending her onto the floor, chair bits scattering across the room.

She was up in an instant, wand ablaze, cursing anything in front of her that moved. A young and very startled Hufflepuff found himself on the receiving end of a Cutting Hex before Severus stuck out his wand, almost casually, and Stunned the other professor.

The entire hall was eerily silent. Up at the faculty table, most of the professors paused, forks raised, staring at the prone form of their unloved colleague. Even Amycus Carrow, after a long look at his sister lying on the floor in front of the faculty table, picked up his fork and attacked his shepherd's pie.

"Continue eating," came Severus' voice.

When the meal was finally over, the longest, most silent meal in the history of Hogwarts, Severus stepped up next to Alecto and revived her with a silent wave of his wand.

"In the future," he said, loudly and haughtily, "there will be no spilling of blood in the Great Hall. It's terribly hard to clean out of the grout."

He left the Great Hall after helping Alecto to her feet and returned to his office, going immediately to the hidden headmaster's walkway, pondering how far he could push the Carrows, or better yet, prevent them from pushing, before the Dark Lord would question his motives.

While not too very far away, in a wizard's tent next to a Scottish loch, Harry Potter was pondering too. Horcruxes or Hallows?

Up in the Room of Requirement, Neville Longbottom was building an army.

And in the Great Hall, a house-elf struggled to clean up the spilled blood. Despite the headmaster's pronouncement, there would be a great deal more blood spilled there that year.


	7. February 1998

Chapter 7

February, 1998

_But February made me shiver with every paper I'd deliver_  
Bad news on the doorstep I couldn't take one more step  
I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride  
But something touched me deep inside the day the music died 

/

There were no songs in the world to make February anything other than what it was—slow, cold, dreary, depressing.

More students disappeared from the castle—or at the very least, disappeared from the hallways and the classrooms. After Seamus Finnigan suffered a particularly cruel bout of torture at the hands of the Carrows, literally being kicked to within an inch of his life by their cruel boots, the rest of the seventh-year Gryffindors vanished with him as soon as he was released from the infirmary. There weren't many of them left—Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil and Finnigan. Patil’s twin sister Padma was gone the next day, with Hannah Abbott and Justin Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff. By the end of the month, several sixth years and fifth years had disappeared as well.

The house-elves now had a sixth table in the kitchens, Severus learned from Kreacher. Food placed on the original five tables was magicked to the tables in the Great Hall above, and food on the sixth table went straight to the Room of Requirement. Severus knew the children were hiding there, though Kreacher reported that the entrance to the room kept moving and the elf only got a glimpse of one of the castle's hideaways on rare occasions. Severus stayed away from that particular seventh floor corridor, but he charged Kreacher with keeping an eye on it and reporting to him if he heard anything amiss.

From what Severus already knew about the Come and Go Room, as Albus had called it, the room itself was capable of providing food for its inhabitants. However, the house-elves had an appointed responsibility for caring for the castle's inhabitants, all of the castle's inhabitants, and had apparently overridden the room's magic with their own.

Severus did pace the other corridors, however, sometimes even during the day when classes were being held. He would glance in at a class as he passed, always taken aback by how few students were in attendance. On occasion, he would step into the back of the classroom to take in the proceedings. His presence seemed to upset the normal flow of the lessons and the professors appeared as flustered as did the students. He seldom commented, except, on occasion, to praise a Slytherin's answer, and he usually slipped out of the room without comment of any kind.

Walking from his office to the owlery one day, he approached Alecto Carrow's classroom and heard her overly loud and dull, flat voice through the open door as he approached.

"As we learned in yesterday's lesson, Muggles have no souls. As we all know, the soul is connected to our magic. No magic, no soul…"

"But my granddad…" began a small, frightened voice. "He died last year. He's in heaven…"

"Your granddad was a Muggle?" Alecto's loud voice sounded gleeful.

"Yes. He was my mum's dad. She's a witch…"

"Muggles have no souls. Your granddad was a Muggle, thus he had no soul. He is simply dead and gone. That is all."

"But…"

Severus could not believe the child was persisting. This must be a particularly young class.

"Silence!" A sharp crack rang out as something—a wand? a ruler?—came down on flesh. A sharp cry was followed by the requested silence.

"Furthermore," continued Alecto. "Muggles usually have one or more physical abnormalities. Many have six or more toes on each foot, webbed fingers and short tails growing from their backsides. Their ears sometimes fall off and they are subjected to a wide assortment of physical ailments such as chronic diarrhea, constipation, flatulence and extreme bad breath."

_You must be a Muggle then,_ thought Severus, frowning as he passed the classroom and glanced within. First years, by all appearances. How long would it take to undo all the damage done this year by the Carrows? How long would it take for these young children to unlearn the biased indoctrination they had received under his watch?

He had a letter to dispatch to the Ministry and he continued on his way, up the many flights of stairs until he reached he owlery. He'd put on his cloak before he left his office, and he was glad of it in this cold and airy place. The owls huddled together on long perches high above the floor, a mixture of tawny and barn owls with a few other varieties mixed in. He scanned the birds, looking for the familiar form of McKenzie, or of Albus' old owl, Lemon Drop, bequeathed to him by the former headmaster, and was startled when, from behind him, a ball of wings and feathers lurched off a perch and landed on his forearm.

Hedwig.

Immediately recognizable by her brilliant whiteness, hooting at him softly, climbing to his shoulder, nuzzling his neck.

He stood frozen while she tested him, queried him, searched him for some sign of her missing human. Was she as reproachful as he thought she was when she found he held no answers?

"Hedwig," he said hoarsely at last. He reached out his right hand to caress the feathers on her head. She looked expectantly at the parchment scroll in his hand, then swiveled her head to face him, eye to eye. She blinked, agonizingly slowly.

"No…I'm sorry. You cannot," he said, looking rather desperately for McKenzie.

Hedwig nudged him again with her head, pushing against his ear plaintively, shuffling her feet and pressing to him. Another mournful hoot. He gave up looking for the other owl for a moment and once again rubbed her head, using his knuckle this time.

"I don't know where he is, either," he whispered. "We're both in the same boat, I'm afraid."

She flew away then, jumping off his shoulder with a press of talons into his flesh. He watched her settle among the others, beside the traitorous McKenzie in fact, and felt somehow bereft.

He met Hagrid on the stairway as he was walking back down. The two eyed each other as they came to a halt in the too-narrow passage. Severus felt that Hagrid's eyes were somehow just like Hedwig's, both piercing and sad.

"Perfessor," said Hagrid, nodding a greeting. "Yeh hear from Harry, do yeh?

Severus stared at Hagrid, eyes unreadable, forcing an expressionless countenance. He took a step forward, meaning to squeeze past the enormous man and continue on his way without comment.

"Oh, I see. Sure. Listen…I won't tell. Jus'…if yeh do hear from him, tell him, will yeh, that I say hullo? That I miss him."

The ever-present knot in Severus' stomach twisted. He avoided these encounters at all costs, for just this reason. The only one he ever spoke with casually was Minerva. He steeled himself, looked up at Hagrid and, without changing his expression, nodded curtly and continued on his way.

/

Slytherin House again led house points on the first of the month, as they had every month of the school year to date, and were thus awarded a special privilege for a week in February. It was the seventh years' turn to choose the reward, and they requested that Gryffindor House serve all Slytherin detentions for a week. Severus sighed at Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson as they stood before him, not even trying to hide their pride and glee at thinking up this one, and Severus nodded.

"This will backfire on you, you realize?" he warned as they walked away from his desk toward the door.

"It will be worth it," gloated Parkinson.

He let them go.

As expected, the Slytherins went out of their way to get detentions that week. They especially liked getting detentions for doing something cruel to a Gryffindor, knowing the Gryffindor in turn would have to serve the detention, effectively getting punished for a crime committed against them.

The Carrows, of course, gave out nearly two-thirds of the detentions that week. More detentions than they could possibly supervise.

Severus called them to his office to point out to their pea-sized brains that there were not enough free hours in the evenings for fifty detentions.

"For your stupidity, I will supervise all these detentions at once. You are dismissed."

The Carrows looked like they had woken up to discover they'd slept through Christmas.

On Thursday evening, Severus stood in front of the Great Hall facing every single remaining Gryffindor. There were far fewer than fifty. He flicked his wand and ink pots, quills and parchment appeared before each one.

"You will each write an essay on the topic I am about to assign. You are required to write at least eighteen inches; longer essays will be acceptable. You will remain here, in your current seat, until you complete the essay and turn it in to me. Mind your penmanship, please."

His voice was steady and cold, just on the near side of cruel.

"The topic of your essay is, 'Why Harry Potter Deserves to Lick the Boots of He Who Must Not be Named.' You may begin."

He sat down on his chair, facing the students.

No one moved. They stared at him for long moments. He realized, of course, that some of these children did not know Harry. That some of them might have no fondness at all for the boy. That others would write the essay too save their skins and get to their warm beds before the worst of the night's cold set in. Just as he knew that there were others who would resist. But he had a plan for that.

Five minutes. A few quills were scratching.

Ten minutes. Most of the students were still staring at him.

Fifteen. Twenty.

He stood up and casually walked before them until he stood at the head of the long Gryffindor House table. He paused, then walked down one side of it, looking over shoulders. He stopped in front of Ginny Weasley. She lifted her eyes at him, challenging.

He lifted his wand, pointed it directly at her.

"Imperio," he said quietly, looking into her eyes, pushing his will into her.

Even those who had been writing had stopped, staring at him, staring at her, eyes wide with shock.

Ginny Weasley's trembling hand picked up her quill and held it over parchment. The hand trembled again. She bit her bottom lip and began to write.

He turned to Romilda Vane. She hurriedly picked up her quill. He walked a few paces, pointed his wand at Jack Sloper.

When he returned to his seat a few minutes later, the entire table was busily scrawling their essays. He had saved them from physical torture at the hands of the Carrows, but somehow he knew that for some of them, this exercise would be worse than the Cruciatus.

/

During the third week of February, while the castle was still bitter cold and damp, an epidemic of Wizarding flu struck Hogwarts. The infirmary was filled to overflowing, additional cots crowded in every nook and cranny. Only the worst cases were sent to the infirmary; most students suffered in their dormitories, treated with potions delivered by the house-elves. Classes were canceled for the week and additional help brought in from St. Mungo's.

Severus dosed himself with every variety of potion he could dream of and managed to escape the worst of it, though he did suffer from a sore throat and headache for several days. On the third day, when he didn't think the outbreak could possibly get any worse, he visited the infirmary in the middle of the day, surveying the beds with a keen yet emotionless eye.

He came back well after curfew, slipping silently into one of the private rooms near Poppy's office, moving like a lithe shadow through the narrow rows between the cots.

Minerva lay in the single bed in the room, sleeping, he hoped, for she was so still and silent he could have mistaken her for dead. Her hair was braided in a long plait down her back. Without her bun, with her glasses folded on the nightstand, with her face so grey and pale, she looked less formidable: brittle, old.

Severus sat soundlessly down on the wooden chair beside her bed and reached out to pull the quilts up around her neck and tuck them in more firmly. One of her hands was outside the coverlet and he picked it up in his own, caressing it with his long fingers. The skin on that hand was fine and papery.

He could not help but recall how he had made these clandestine night visits to the infirmary last year, to visit Harry after he'd been hit with that Bludger during the Quidditch match, after he'd had the fateful altercation with Draco in the bathroom.

"You should not be here, Severus. You will get sick yourself." Minerva's voice was weak and hoarse. She squeezed his hand gently with her own.

"I have escaped the worst of it," he answered. He smoothed wispy hairs back from her forehead, noting that her brow was clammy with perspiration. "Are you feeling any better?"

Her usually steely eyes, muted with fever, searched out his own.

"I am better, Severus. How are the children?"

He scooted his chair fractionally closer to her bed.

"Weak, ill. I have canceled classes for the week. We have called in help from St. Mungo's. All will be fine, Minerva." He gazed at her face for a long moment, seeing the exhaustion behind the usually strong eyes. He knew, then, though he had suspected before, how much this year was taking from her, how much of her strength was being drained by the daily struggle to do her job with the growing fear and entangling chaos that was life at Hogwarts.

Minerva closed her eyes.

"I will be fine, Severus," she said. "I only need to rest. Go now, you have a school to run." Her hand clutched his for a moment. "I'm afraid there are still children who need saving, Severus. Your job is not done yet."

He sat there until he was sure she was sleeping, then stood and disappeared from the room and the wing.

It was a most unpleasant February.

/

Once more in February, Phineas Nigellus appeared to deliver a message from Harry.

"He wants to know where the Lovegood girl is," he drawled, studying his painted portrait fingernails as if bored with the whole affair.

Severus closed his eyes against the encroaching headache.

"Tell Harry that I do not know," he instructed.

Phineas appeared after a few moments. "He claims that you are lying. He believes that you do indeed know, and are not telling him to prevent him from doing something rash and stupid." The former headmaster cocked his head. "Frankly, I think he's got a good point," he added.

Severus repeated the same message. "Tell Harry that I do not know," he instructed.

Nigellus took less than a minute to return this time.

"He says 'Will you tell me if I tell you where we are?'"

Severus was standing now, staring at the portrait. Albus, too, had stood up behind his painted desk and was silently watching, lips pursed shut in a tight line.

Severus' heart was fluttering. A test. Why must he always be tested?

He dropped his head.

"No," he said. He looked up and stared resolutely at Phineas. "Tell him my answer is no."

/

He paced around his walkway, in ankle-deep snow, not bothering to banish it but instead tramping it down as he ran his hand along the ledge and looked outward, first to the lake, then to Hogsmeade, the Forbidden Forest, the castle grounds. Below him and beyond him, the castle was beginning to come to life again as children recovered from the epidemic and ate again in the Great Hall, scratched out their homework in their common rooms, sitting snug and warm by the fires, wrapped up in quilts and comforters.

He paced around the headmaster's walk, trapped on this island with no escape. He paced its perimeter, this crow's nest of a marooned ship, the trail worn around the perimeter of the pen by a caged tiger.

Somewhere out there was the Dark Lord, holed up in Malfoy Manor, growing stronger, attracting new legions of followers.

Somewhere out there was Harry, with his friends, camping in woods and moor and rocks, growing more desperate, finding strength from within, isolated to the point of insanity.

Somewhere in the castle was Neville Longbottom, and Seamus Finnigan, and Justin Finch-Fletchley, and the Patil twins, and others, hiding from the Carrows, from him, a reborn Dumbledore's Army.

Harry's army now.

He thought of those essays he had set, the essays he had forced the Gryffindors to write on threat of the Imperius curse.

He remembered the essay turned in by Ginny Weasley the most.

"Harry should lick MoldyWart's boots because Harry is the kindest, most selfless person in the world and would do anything for anyone, even old Moldy Shorts himself. If Moldy's boots are dirty and need cleaning, Harry would lick them rather than make him go out in public with dirty boots.

"Fortunately, Harry's saliva also has latent explosive properties. Once Lord You Know Who's boots get the least bit wet, the saliva bomb will explode, blasting old Snake Face out of the boots and shooting him directly into the Forbidden Forest, where the centaurs will adopt him as one of their own, using Muggle medical technology to transplant his upper body onto the torso of a horse."

The essay went on and on with this nonsense, lapsing toward seriousness from time to time as she struggled with the curse before evidently throwing it toward the end of the assignment.

"Harry Potter would never lick You Know Who's boots because he's a man, not a snake. He's a man of integrity, who loves his friends and family more than some desperate desire for immortality. Harry doesn't have Death Eater minions. Harry has loyal friends. Harry doesn't crave power. Harry has it in spades already and would rather be an ordinary man. Harry Potter is ten times the man You Know Who ever was, and one day, he'll destroy the bastard.

"And then, Professor Snape, you can stop pretending and go on to live the kind of life you deserve. Thanks for keeping us from the Carrows tonight, and if you ever try another Imperio on me I'll have your balls."

He smiled and shook his head, then went down into his quarters. It was a _Potterwatch_ night and it was almost time.

/

He sat in his usual armchair by the fire, the customary glass of firewhisky in his hands. He'd tuned the wireless to the code provided during the last airing and waited patiently for the broadcast to start.

Lee Jordan was narrating again. Guests this episode included Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley—who mumbled a lot but delivered a rather interesting spot on using Muggle electronics for wizards who found themselves without wands. There were outtakes from former students, a commentary on the danger of the banking system collapsing from Bill Weasley and another Top Ten list from the Weasley twins.

_Really? ‘The Top Ten names the Dark Lord is called behind his back by the Death Eaters’?_

"Ready to go, brother?" asked one twin.

"Go ahead, take the honors," replied the other.

"Alright then. Number 10: He Who Must Not be Human"

"That's rather weak—what's Number 9?" replied twin one.

"Number 9: Lord Moldy Shorts."

"Number 8," continued twin one. "The Dark Lord of the Shits."

"That's a play on words, you know," said twin two.

"Number 7: Tommy Piddle."

"Good one. Number 6: U No Poo."

"Hey! That's rather blatant product placement, don't you think?" Twin one didn't sound half serious.

"Of course, but it's our product, so it's perfectly alright. Number 5: Moldy Warts."

"You already used that one."

"No, I didn't. I said ‘Moldy Shorts’ before."

"Oh. Alright. Number 4: Mrs. Lucius Malfoy."

Loud guffawing. Severus snickered.

"Number 3: Mamma's Boy."

"Number 2: Old Mr. No Nose."

"That's heartless, bro."

"I realize that. But so is he."

"And the number one name the Death Eaters call the Dark Lord behind his back is…Stinky!"

"Um…that's not really that funny."

"Yes it is. Get it? It's just a common ol' Muggle nick-name. Stinky! Because he smells bad!"

Severus almost turned the wireless off at that point. There was only so much Weasley twin bickering one could take in an evening. However, he stayed on the couch, nursing a second half-glass of firewhisky, and was surprised to hear a new voice come on the air. It was Nymphadora Tonks, if he wasn't mistaken.

"And to close our show tonight, these miscreants have talked me into doing a little song for you, seeing as you all enjoyed Romulus' song a while back. Rom is going to help me on this one, aren't you?"

"Sure thing, kid." That was Remus.

"Anyway, it's a song to help you get through the rest of this tiresome month, to give you all hope. Harry, if you're out there listening, and we have a feeling that you are, this song is for you, honey. The song is called ‘Light of a Clear Blue Morning.’ You probably don't know it, but if you do, go ahead and sing along with us."

_It's been a long dark night, and I've been waiting for the morning_  
It's been a long hard fight, but I see a brand new day dawning  
I've been looking for the sunshine you know I ain't seen it in so long  
Everything's gonna work out just fine, everything's gonna be all right  
that's been all wrong 

_Cause I can see the light of a clear blue morning_  
I can see the light of a brand new day  
I can see the light of a clear blue morning  
Everything's gonna be all right, it's gonna be OK 

_It's been a long long time since I've known the taste of freedom_  
Those clinging vines that had me bound but I don't need' em  
I've been like a captured eagle you know an eagle's born to fly  
And now that I have won my freedom like an eagle I'm eager for the sky 

_Cause I can see the light of a clear blue morning_  
I can see the light of a brand new day  
I can see the light of a clear blue morning  
Everything's gonna be all right, it's gonna be OK. 

Severus' eyes were closed when the song finished. He was somewhere else, somewhere he'd never been. He imagined himself then holding a child, a crying toddler, comforting him, rocking him, singing _Everything's gonna be all right, it's gonna be OK…._


	8. March 1998

Chapter 8

March, 1998

March crawled.

In like a lion and—this year—out like a lion, as well.

He had little to look forward to. As the Dark Lord's fury and frustration grew—perhaps because Harry was still on the loose, but Severus thought it had to do with something else, as well—he meted out punishments more liberally. Severus did not escape completely, though he did take some solace in that the Carrows seemed to be targeted more frequently and more destructively than he himself. He wondered sometimes if Harry Occluded when he was being tortured. It occurred to him one Saturday evening when the Dark Lord summoned him to Malfoy Manor along with other more senior Death Eaters that Harry might deliberately use the opportunity of Severus' pain to try to enter into the Dark Lord's mind, a desperate ploy for desperate times, but what was Harry Potter at this moment if not desperate?

And what was Severus other than blindly optimistic in his battle against hopelessness?

He wished it were over. For him, anyway. He was accustomed to living a duplicitous life, of consummate lip service, of offering false devotion. But he was unaccustomed to the gut-wrenching worry of a parent, the heart-stopping fear that the child will not live to see another birthday. To the guilt that plagued him for not having done enough in the short time they had to help Harry more, to give him more hope, more knowledge, more power. Before, before Harry was anything but Potter, a carbon-copy twin of his long-departed father, Severus' guilt was wrapped up in a neat package, confined to a backroom of his heart, buried beneath fifteen years of springs and summers and autumns and winters. But somehow the guilt had begun to seep out, through those minute cracks in the walls around his heart that someone had dug with his silly questions in his homework-letters and his worrying when Severus was hurting and his Animagus deer, that ridiculous, graceful doe with its mournful brown eyes.

Nine months, now, of living his old life, his lonely life, but so much worse now than it was before. Is this what he would have felt every day had Lily lived? To know she was out there, somewhere, but unreachable? Unattainable? Heart aching, mind never resting? Was it really better to have loved and lost..than never to have loved at all?

He thought it would be easier to mourn a never-quite-had-love than a lost child. A child who had been snuffed out of the world before he had the opportunity to make snow angels on a slope in the Alps or build a sand castle on a Mediterranean shore.

Not that Harry was lost. He spoke with him—no, _communicated_ with him, through Phineas—from time to time. Less often now that they each knew something the other wanted to know yet refused to reveal. Luna Lovegood's location. What? Did Harry truly expect he would deliver up that little bit of information? "Inform him she's in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, Phineas," he would say. "Oh—and tell him to mind the peacocks when he breaks in. They can be quite aggressive and raise the alarm. Tell him that Lucius keeps his wand in his left pocket and that he should avoid the parlor behind the formal ballroom—that's where the Dark Lord sleeps with his snake."

What would Harry offer in return? "I'm camping near where they had the Quidditch World Cup when I was about to start fifth year. In the woods—where we found that elf after she tried to stop Barty Crouch Jr. from raising the Dark Mark. Mind you wipe your feet before coming in the tent. It's been raining a lot and the muck is getting deep. Oh—and if you know where any Horcruxes are hidden, now would be a good time to tell us…"

Hogwarts had had 400 students last year. After the Muggle-borns were cast out and those of mixed-blood ancestry scrutinized to the point of near insanity, and after even some pure-bloods transferred to schools on the continent and even overseas, only 225 had returned this year. Forty-eight of those were now missing. Severus expected even more to go home for Easter Break in two weeks and not bother to come back. Parents were worried. Owls came daily bearing inquiries from parents whose children sent them "unusual letters." Parents requested visits to check on the health and welfare of their children. They were roundly denied. Children were required to write to their parents weekly, and a Ministry official sat in an office on the fourth floor and read every outgoing letter. The children didn't know they were being censored, of course. Every owl that left the castle was diverted back by a series of spells. Each was kept in the fourth-floor office until the letter it had carried was examined, documented, altered if needed and tied back onto the original owl and sent on its way. It was a boring job and a demanding one.

"Dear Mum and Papa: Two more Hufflepuffs are gone. Hector Hanover and Jill Estes are fifth years. Yesterday in Dark Arts, they didn't want to curse each other with a Flogging Hex, so Professor Carrow did the hex on them instead. Both of them were crying when it was over and were covered with lash marks. They didn't come back to the dorm after dinner. We're all very worried about them…"

What Mum and Papa actually received went something like this: "Dear Mum and Papa: Two more Hufflepuffs are my friends. Hector Hanover and Jill Estes are fifth years. Yesterday in Defense Against the Dark Arts, they didn't want to curse each other with a Flogging Hex, so Professor Carrow congratulated them on resisting the temptation he gave them. Both of them were crying with joy when it was over and were given top marks. When they didn't come back to the dorm after dinner, we were very worried about them…"

Often there were letters from the children in hiding.

These were the least likely to require Ministry censoring. They told their parents, their grandparents, that they were doing well, that the year was going wonderfully, that the teachers were treating them well and that Headmaster Snape was firm but fair.

"Firm but fair," mused Severus that night. He wondered if that was something he should aspire to. He thought it was and knew he had to work more on that "fair" part.

The sixth table in the kitchen groaned under the weight of the food it now held at every meal. What were those children doing that required so much protein and so many carbohydrates?

But more children in the Room of Requirement meant less blood on the floor of the Great Hall. Hogwarts had its ghosts, but it also had the ghosts in its walls, a growing army of flesh and blood children, Harry's army, whom it rigorously protected while they waited, waited, waited for the Chosen One to return.

Sometimes Severus imagined he heard the castle's wards groaning, shifting, allowing things to happen under the roof that were nearly impossible to consider. Other times, he imagined that he was being watched by hidden eyes as he walked the long corridors at night. Always he felt terribly lonely. Always he felt one step ahead of his mortal doom.

/

"All hell has broken loose, Severus. Get here at once."

Severus spun around in his bedroom. Lucius' face in the fire popped away before he could make a move. But if his voice was to be believed, it was not a time to dawdle.

It was Sunday—very early, hardly daybreak. The castle was nearly deserted, as the children had departed on Friday for the Easter holiday. He tried to clear his head, contemplating what "all hell breaking loose" could possibly mean in the mansion that housed the Malfoys, a small army of Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself. A sinking feeling in his gut told him Harry must be involved, somehow, and he dressed hurriedly and Flooed to the Three Broomsticks with hardly a second thought. From Hogsmeade, he Apparated directly to Malfoy Manor, hurried paces taking him past the sentry wards, the white peacocks, the guardian hedges. He could hear shouts from inside, shouts that could easily be mistaken for screams.

Bellatrix, for certain. The woman had the vocal range of a boiling tea kettle.

He hurried to the grand front entrance with its carriage drive and inlaid Italian marble mosaic tiles mimicking interlocked, interwoven golden galleons. The doors opened to him as he composed himself—again—and buried all emotion under his tightly woven and impermeable shell. He affected his uninterested, bored countenance. He would have Lucius, at least, believe that his time was being wasted by these trivialities.

Another scream rent the air—Bellatrix again: she really could scream like a banshee when riled—as Lucius himself rushed up to Severus, leaving the door to the ballroom open behind him.

"What has happened, Lucius?" asked Severus, looking around in mock curiosity, as if trying to discern a visible cause for all of the chaos. He idly kicked something with his boot and a crystal shard slid across the floor and hit the wall with an intriguing tinkle. Severus narrowed his eyes, now seeing that the floor was littered with pieces of broken glass, each of then sparkling in the light of the multiple oil lamps.

"We had him! We had Harry Potter and his friends—and they have escaped again!" Lucius was nearly hissing, his voice low and sibilant. He looked behind him more than once. "He is questioning Bella now. He has never done this before—tortured her like this."

Severus took a long moment—a very long moment—to compose himself. _Harry had been here? In Malfoy Manor?_

"So he came for the Lovegood girl at last?" he asked, feigning lack of interest and glancing around the room as if expecting to see Luna Lovegood sitting at the spinet practicing her scales.

"He did not _come_ , Severus!" answered Lucius. "He was captured—by Greyback and his group. He had the audacity—" he stressed this word strongly—"to use the Dark Lord's name out loud. Greyback brought them here, but no one was able to identify Potter. His face was grotesque and swollen. We did not want to call the Dark Lord until we were absolutely certain it was Potter that we held…"

Severus' eyes narrowed even as his mind tripped ahead, unfettered and jolted. Grotesque and swollen? Had something happened to Harry? Was he injured? Poisoned? And how had they escaped? What had _happened_ here?

"Your son is home for the holiday, Lucius. Did you not think to have him identify Potter? Surely he could see through a poorly placed glamour." He shook his head ungraciously at Lucius' apparent stupidity.

"My son could not identify him," hissed Lucius quickly. "We locked them in the dungeons while Bella questioned the Mudblood. They had the Sword of Gryffindor, Se/verus—but a fake, it seems. We had a goblin imprisoned here as well and he confirmed that it was a copy."

"Had?" Severus raised his brow, his voice disdainful. "And what, pray tell, happened to him, Lucius? Are you telling me that _all_ of your prisoners have escaped?" _And that sword was the real sword! What the hell was the goblin up to? Goblins did not befriend humans, did not lie for them._

"Actually, I am," answered Lucius, running his roughened hands over his skull, smoothing out the long blond hair that framed his face. "The goblin, Ollivander and Lovegood—as well as another Gryffindor we were holding here with them—one from Draco's form. And they somehow managed to kill Pettigrew. The Dark Lord has not yet discovered this…"

"Pettigrew is dead?" asked Severus, though the answer was already clear. "Killed by your prisoners? How did this happen?" He felt no sadness or loss for Peter Pettigrew, the man who had betrayed Lily and James Potter, but he did not like thinking that Harry had killed, been forced to kill, anyone at all. Not even a rat like Peter Pettigrew.

"It is…unclear…how Pettigrew died," said Lucius, his voice still low and hurried. "That abomination of a hand was found clutching his own neck. It appears he was strangled—perhaps by his own hand."

"Ah," said Severus. He looked around again, pretending to be bored. "What is it you want of me, Lucius?" he asked, not too kindly. "I have not been summoned by our lord. Clearly he is in control of things here." His voice sounded haughty even to his own ear.

"Draco," said Lucius quickly, looking around to assure their privacy. "Will you speak with him? Before our lord calls for him? Coach him, Severus. Had he identified Potter as soon as Greyback brought him in, we would have summoned the Dark Lord immediately and he would not have escaped. I cannot trust Bellatrix to protect him!" He grabbed hold of Severus’ collar desperately and nearly shook the man.

"Lucius—calm down!" hissed Severus, pushing Lucius away and straightening his robes. "Control yourself."

"He is my _son_ , Severus. My only son!" He shook his head, staring at Severus with something suspiciously like pity. "You don't know what it is to have a child…to see that child in danger…"

Severus turned away quickly, hoping that Lucius would interpret his action as one of regret—regret that he had not have anyone to share his life—not a spouse, not a child. _Only Harry,_ he thought. _Only Harry Potter_. He wanted to protest. _You don't understand, Lucius. I do have a son. I've had him for nearly two years now. His name? Why, Harry Potter of course. He and Draco are in school together…_

"Severus, I'm sorry. I did not mean to…" Lucius sounded very much like he _did_ mean to.

Severus leveled a calculating gaze at Lucius. "Very well, I will speak with Draco. But first, Lucius—I cannot help but be curious—how did these mere _children_ manage to escape? I hear nothing from you but derision for Potter's questionable skills as a wizard and as a human being. Just exactly how was be able to escape after being disarmed and locked up in your dungeons?" Severus had pieced part of it together already of course. Hermione had been taken away to be questioned—and certainly tortured—by Bellatrix. Harry and Ron had been tossed into the dungeon with the other prisoners. Somehow they had overpowered Pettigrew and taken his wand. But what after that? If it was possible to sweat on the inside, Severus was doing it. Beads of virtual perspiration ran down his bones. He was standing in Malfoy Manor. Had he been here an hour earlier, Harry would have been here, trapped in the dungeon with Severus above him, impotent. He gripped his wand in his robe pocket, trying to calm the trembling in his fingers.

Lucius took two steps and collapsed on an ornate plush chair in the entryway.

"Pettigrew—he let them overpower him and they obviously took his wand. Potter and the Weasley boy got upstairs just as Bellatrix summoned the Dark Lord. She told Greyback he could have the Mudblood." Lucius made a face—somewhere between a grimace and a grin. "That did not sit well with Weasley. He managed to disarm Bellatrix. Potter caught her wand. That is the last that I remember myself. Apparently he used the wand to…to…to Stun me." He admitted this last bit with understandable reluctance.

"What did you find when you were revived?" asked Severus, giving Harry a virtual high-five for taking out Malfoy. He directed his piercing stare at Lucius.

Lucius dropped his face in his hands. "Draco revived me with my own wand. Greyback was stunned on the ground. The prisoners were all gone—Bellatrix claimed that my former house-elf—Dobby—dropped our priceless crystal chandelier from the ceiling. It is inconceivable, but somehow that elf, that _elf_ , must have come to Potter's rescue. Worse yet, Potter took Draco's wand—and Bellatrix's—with him."

Severus had quickly put the sequence of events together in his head. Harry, Ron and Hermione were captured by Greyback and brought to Malfoy Manor. Because no one could positively identify Harry, they were put in the dungeons until a positive identification could be made. Hermione had been taken by Bellatrix to be interrogated and tortured. Harry and Ron had overpowered Wormtail and escaped. They came to Hermione's aid, disarmed Bellatrix, stunned Lucius, disarmed Draco and stunned Greyback. Dobby had somehow come to their aid and gotten them out of Malfoy Manor before Lucius had revived and, thank Merlin, before the Dark Lord had arrived.

Another escape, by the skin of his teeth. Another instance of the Potter luck holding out in the end. Another improbable, impossible, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping moment, Act IV in the Shakespearean drama of Harry's life on the run unfolding this year in Wizarding Britain.

Where was he now?

"Where is Draco, Lucius?" Severus tried to bring a touch of sympathy to his voice. He only managed to sound exasperated.

Lucius indicated the room behind them, the ballroom with its opulent ornamentation and heirloom crystal chandelier the size of a small Muggle automobile. Severus glanced inside. Glass covered the floor. In a manor full of powerful wizards, not one had bothered to clean the floor or even attempt to restore a bit of order to the chaos that resulted from Harry Potter's fortunately all-too-brief stay here.

Severus left Lucius in the chair and walked into the ballroom. Bellatrix's cries from the small parlor beyond the ballroom had weakened to sobbing pleas for forgiveness and mercy mixed with laments of devotion and love. Greyback was on the floor still, on his back, apparently precisely where he had fallen. Narcissa was pacing near the door that led to the parlor, her hair unkempt and eyes wild, while Draco sat in a corner, huddled down, arms wrapped around his knees. He looked up as Severus entered the room.

"Draco," said Severus, "come with me."

Draco pushed himself up and followed Severus from the room without even a single backward glance.

/

Severus stood on the turret walkway above his castle domain.

Morning had passed into afternoon and afternoon into evening. Still he could not fully grasp what had happened that day at Malfoy Manor, how close Harry had come to death. Draco's story had been…enlightening.

Why had the boy not revealed Harry's identity immediately?

Severus clearly recalled that part of his conversation with his student.

"Did you know it was Potter?" he'd asked Draco. He had led the boy outside and had made him sit on one of the ornate stone benches that lined the pathways in the east rose garden, no matter the chill of the March morning.

"I wasn't sure," Draco had answered dully. "His face was all puffy. I couldn't tell if he had the scar."

"Draco—he was with Granger and Weasley, was he not?"

Draco nodded but looked away. "That doesn't prove anything."

"He was the right size? Build? Height?" persisted Severus.

Draco shook his head. "Taller than I remembered. Thinner. Longer hair."

Severus sat down. He'd been standing in front of the boy in full interrogation mode.

"It has been nearly a year since you've seen Potter, Draco," he said with a sigh. "He could easily be taller and thinner. Of course his hair will have grown."

"I wasn't sure," insisted Draco. "I didn't want to be wrong. I _couldn't ___be wrong."

_He hadn't capitulated._

Severus had, in the end, simply advised him to tell the Dark Lord that he had never denied that the prisoner was Harry Potter but had simply stated that he could not be a hundred percent sure it was he. He did not think it would save Draco from torture, but there was always the chance the Dark Lord would take pity on the young man. A small chance, about the same odds as the Dark Lord doing the hula hoop naked to entertain his Death Eater minions, but a chance nonetheless. 

Now Severus, walking with his hands behind him in the late evening chill, was faced with the upside-down realization that Draco Malfoy had been unable or unwilling to betray Harry Potter. There was something there he could not quite put his hands on—some symbiotic relationship, perhaps, of one to the other. Not a friendship—nothing approaching that. Perhaps the tentative beginnings of understanding, that each boy was a product of circumstances, pressed into a path in life by forces largely beyond his control. 

How ironic that it was Dobby, the Malfoys’ former house-elf, that had saved Harry and his friends. Severus knew Harry would not take the debt he owed the elf lightly. But where had Dobby taken them? 

Where was Harry? _Damn it!_ Where was his son? 

/

The Dark Lord came to Hogwarts the next day.

The students, of course, were still at home for the half-term Easter break, except for the ghosts in the walls: the hidden students in the Room of Requirement. But the Dark Lord didn't know about them, and didn't ask. He came, instead, to the entry foyer, stood regarding the house-point hourglasses, then drifted into the trophy room, running his long-fingered hands with their corpse-like nails over stone walls, polished wooden tables and smooth glass. Severus walked near him, silently, as he wandered into the Great Hall and spent a long time staring at the room, regarding house banners and charmed ceiling and the Hogwarts shield displayed over the central podium.

Then he surprised Severus and asked to see Harry Potter's dormitory.

Severus led him up to the seventh floor without comment, face neutral, demeanor calm and uninterested, as inside he crumbled into a thousand sharp-edged pieces.

He asked Severus which bed Harry Potter had slept on. Severus said he did not know, but called a house-elf, who pointed out the bed, then popped away exactly as a house-elf should.

Severus did not like it when the Dark Lord sat on Harry's abandoned bed. Nor did he like it when he ran his fingers over the coverlet and opened the small wardrobe and fingered the curtains on the four-poster. He resented him being in this room, in this castle, in Scotland, on this island, in this hemisphere, in this world. There was simply not enough space left in the world for both the Dark Lord and Harry Potter and Severus felt that both Harry and the Dark Lord felt the same.

He was further disturbed when the Dark Lord lay back on the bed, head propped on two pillows, staring upward at the canopy above him while his fingers caressed the coverlet, tracing invisible patterns in the simple cotton duvet. Perhaps he was remembering his own days at Hogwarts, his own youthful musings, his own adolescent angst. Or perhaps he was only imagining what Harry had thought as he lay there, perhaps pondering the prophecy, or pondering his orphan status, or wondering what life had in store for him and how he could live forever. Pondering magic and what it could provide him, refusing to believe that it was not the answer to everything.

Severus stood serenely by the door, respectful in demeanor, Occlumency shields fully engaged—doubly engaged—while the caged lion within him tried to claw its way out, longing to snap the snake-faced parody of a man's neck in half, to sink its claws into the thin-stretched skin, to tear out the chest of this farce of a man, proving chest cavity empty where beating heart should lie.

The Dark Lord stood up and walked past Severus oh-so-casually. The headmaster followed him into the hallway, down stairway after stairway, to the second floor, to Severus' own office doors.

"Severus, you may leave me now."

Severus bowed low and bade the Dark Lord good evening. He turned away and rode the stairway to his office and went immediately to his quarters, then up the hidden stair to the turret walkway. He didn't know where the Dark Lord was going, but he would have to leave Hogwarts eventually and Severus—Severus would be watching.

It was difficult to see in the dark, but movement by the lake caught his eye some time later and a few minutes after that, he heard the sharp crack of breaking stone and its mournful echo over the loch.

No.

He leaned outward over the low wall, striving to see, focusing his eyes on the white marble tomb by the lake.

A flash of light. A quick look upward told him it was not a stormy night. Eyes back to the tomb.

The next flash of light was longer, sustained, ecstatic. Lightning crackling upward from a single point outside the tomb, illuminating a man and a wand.

Yes.

Voldemort…he thought the name, he could not say it… _Voldemort_ had desecrated Albus' tomb, entered the sacred realm. But why? Was it the wand? Had he stolen the dead headmaster's wand?

Albus' wand. He knew absolutely nothing of it, despite it being nearly analogous to the wizard himself.

_Why would he want Albus' wand?_

He watched, speechless, as the Dark Lord launched himself into the sky, shadow and smoke, flying out of Hogwarts on the tail of night, disappearing over the skies of Hogsmeade without a backward glance.

He knew he must go.

Down the stairs to his quarters, down the stairs to his office, down the stairs to the second floor, down the stairs to the entry hall, down the stairs to the courtyard, then down the path to the lake, to the tomb, to the broken slab of marble that had served as a door.

He looked inside only to assure himself that Albus' corpse still lay at rest, undefiled save for the absence of his wand, his staff of power, then repaired the broken slab and righted it, covering the tomb's entrance again. He placed his hand on the tomb door for a long minute, communing with the smooth stone, then turned and walked quickly back to the castle.

/

He slept fitfully that night, dreaming of Albus' face cold and white on a cold and white marble slab, and when he at last entered his office the next morning, Phineas Nigellus gave a loud "Ahem."

Nigellus was in his portrait, looking exceedingly smug. Severus gazed levelly at him.

"Where are they? Have you heard anything? Anything at all?"

Nigellus picked a piece of lint off his collar.

"Perhaps...I have learned something." He looked up at Severus sagely. "Mind you, not a location. But other things of import, especially to one as curious as yourself."

"I am in no mood for games," said Snape sharply. "Tell me what you know."

"The Mudblood is injured. They have placed her bag, the one that holds my portrait and the entire contents of a pawn shop, in the room with the boys. And before you ask, I have no idea where this house sits. But there are other people here—a man, a woman who sounds distinctly foreign, a goblin, an old man, perhaps other young folk as well. It seems quite crowded, in fact."

"What did you hear, Phineas?" asked Severus, his voice spent. _A woman who sounds quite foreign._ Could Harry really be with Bill and his French wife?

"The fool is planning to break into Gringotts!" exclaimed Nigellus gleefully. "He is after something in a specific vault.”

"You are sure?" Severus could not understand the feeling inside him.

"They have been talking of nothing but this all night," insisted Nigellus. "Have you ever heard of anything more foolhardy?"

The feeling was still there. Not horror. Not terror. Worry, for certain, fear for the children. But pride, too. Harry had found another Horcrux. Why else would he contemplate breaking into the most secure bank in the world?

"There is something else…" teased Nigellus.

Severus was tired of games.

"Then tell me," he sighed. "What else?"

"They speak of an elf…an elf that recently helped them escape."

"Yes," said Severus impatiently. "Go on."

"Hmph," said Nigellus. "Well, the elf is dead. Killed during the escape. Potter buried him himself."

Severus stared at the portrait with unblinking eyes.

The elf is dead.

"You are sure? You are positive this is what you heard?"

"Oh, yes," answered Phineas. "The boy is quite prone to sobbing over it, in fact. Can you even imagine? Crying over a mere house-elf?"

"Dobby is not…was not…a mere house-elf," stated Severus with unexpected emotion, a well of feeling balling up in his throat, pushing to escape. He did not know why he was doing this. He should stop, stomp it down, forget about it.

"Dobby was a free elf!" He almost shouted it.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Phineas Nigellus. "Elves cannot be free. They are servants, bound to their masters. To the house they serve."

"This one was free," stated Severus in parting, heading for the stairs to his quarters. "This one…this one was special."

He climbed up the stairs with the weight of the world on his shoulders, no heavier than the body of the smallest of loyal creatures, but weighing him down and inhibiting his progress upward. He stumbled, then sat on the stairs, facing downward, eyes hot with a foreign sort of prickle. He wiped at them ineffectively. He was sure that Harry had already cried enough, yet he could not stop his tears.

Three and a half months from now, he would stumble across a little piece of limestone, upright in the sand, lettered in Harry's handwriting, already worn and faded by wind and sun, while walking outside of Shell Cottage on his way to the beach to fetch Harry; the first time, in fact, that he felt strong enough to make the short walk down to the ocean by himself.

He would kneel down and smooth the sandy loam over the small mound, press his lips to the earth, and thank Dobby with all his heart and soul for his sacrifice.

_Here lies Dobby—A Free Elf_


	9. April 1, Teatime - May 1 1998

Chapter 9

April 1, 1998 – Teatime, May 1, 1998

In April, Severus spent a good deal of the time when he was alone mentally reconstructing Harry's escape from Malfoy Manor and his probable current whereabouts. He had more to work with now than ever before. According to Nigellus, they were staying at one location now, living in a house, not a tent. The presence of the woman with the accent along with the certainty that they were staying with someone familiar made him settle on Shell Cottage, the residence now of Bill and Fleur Weasley. A place Harry knew intimately, where he was comfortable, where he was home.

Where he could lie in the hammock and listen to the ocean, where he could rest and recover, eat warm meals and gain back some of that lost weight.

Where he could plan, scheme, pace the length of the porch with hands clasped behind his back.

No, Severus realized, that is how he himself would pace. Brow furrowed, hands linked together behind him, pivoting to turn around, robes swirling outward. Harry's hands would not be still as he paced. And he was unlikely to pace while alone. He would move excitedly back and forth, motioning with his hands and arms, pushing unruly hair back out of his face. His friends would listen. Weasley would jump into nearly any dangerous scheme with him, not rash as Severus had once imagined him, but brave, and loyal, and more calculating than Harry was himself. Hermione would listen, digest, regurgitate in her own words, argue against certain tactics, in the end follow her friends into danger.

How could these _children_ break into Gringotts? Severus feared it would be a fatal attempt. Goblins did not take well to thievery and surely, surely, Harry would not be trying to plot with the goblin they had brought with them in the escape from Malfoy Manor.

"They are plotting with the goblin," Nigellus told him.

Severus had whirled around, pacing, as he had been, in front of his desk, the eyes of the portrait headmasters—all of those not sleeping, anyway—tracking him back and forth as he moved.

"What have you heard?" asked Severus, not even trying to keep the rising panic from his voice. It had been some time since Phineas had been able to provide any news at all. They had not removed his portrait from Hermione's bag, which was still in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Hermione apparently rooted through it from time to time but the only things Phineas heard now were the occasional ramblings of the children—Severus could not help but call them that still—when they holed up in the room during the day for some private plotting.

Phineas gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Mind you—it is not easy for me," he said. "Spending time in that insufferable portrait, face down against a moldy old tent, straining to hear, not able to see anything—the light blinds me every time I come back here…"

"Am I asking too much of you?" asked Severus. His voice had a challenging undertone to it that the old headmaster did not miss.

"Of course not," Nigellus answered quickly, adding in a sarcastic, sing-song voice, as if reciting a pledge, "The job of a former headmaster of Hogwarts in his long-awaited and well-deserved afterlife is to further the great institution of magical education by offering his unfettered assistance, advice and wisdom to the current headmaster as long as his portrait hangs on these sacred walls."

"Get on with it, then," muttered Severus, watching Dumbledore's portrait from the corner of his eye and noting Albus' indulgent smile. "What have you heard?"

"The goblin has agreed to help them," said Nigellus, rather proudly.

"Help them break into Gringotts?" exclaimed Severus. "A _goblin_ is going to help them?"

"Well, he did demand a rather exacting price," replied Nigellus, examining his fingernails as if bored but Severus could almost see him trembling in his effort to hold back the additional information.

The current headmaster approached his portrait and leaned against the wall with one hand on either side of the frame. Nigellus looked up and took a startled jump backward upon seeing the glaring eyes of Severus Snape threatening to ignite his portrait.

"The price?"

"The Sword of Gryffindor," stated Nigellus, rather smugly considering the proximity of the living and breathing headmaster.

Severus dropped his arms and stepped backward.

"He will need that sword…" protested Albus' portrait self.

"They promised him that…for his help?" asked Severus, as inside he warred with conflicting thoughts and emotions. _Never deal with a goblin_. But…they would need the goblin. They would never get inside Gringotts without his assistance.

"They did," confirmed Nigellus, folding his arms in front of himself. "I could have told them, of course, had they bothered to ask me, had they remembered that I was inside that bag practically suffocating between that tent and those extremely noisome dirty socks, that one does not _deal_ with goblins with even a vague intent to not hold exactly to both the letter and the spirit of the agreement…"

"Harry knows nothing of goblins," said Severus warningly. "The boy is only 17." He turned toward Albus' half-sized self within its frame, looking to Dumbledore to give him guidance through this dilemma. "What do I do, Albus?" he asked. "Is now the time to intervene?"

"Think, Severus," soothed Albus. "The boy is with Bill Weasley, is he not? Mr. Weasley works for Gringotts, or he did. He has ample experience with goblins to guide Harry appropriately."

Severus shook his head at Albus and felt an ironic smile tug at his mouth. As much as Albus had loved Harry, as much as he had tried to help him, prepare him for the quest, he didn't really know Harry at all.

"He will not have told Bill Weasley, Albus," said Severus, shaking his head slowly and turning away toward the window. "He will trust no one with this. As far as I can tell, no one even knows where he is—not even the rest of the Weasleys.

"Miss Granger, then," suggested Albus. "She is quite bright, and practical."

Severus shook his head. "Dealing with goblins is not covered in textbooks and she is Muggle-born; she will not know this intrinsically."

Albus looked at Severus, a wan smile on his wrinkled canvas face.

"Severus, Harry has managed to break into the Ministry of Magic, avoid Voldemort himself at Godric's Hollow and escape from Malfoy Manor and a horde of Death Eaters." He paused, his cerulean eyes seeming to gleam as they held Severus' gaze. "I think you need to let him follow his instincts in this, too. They have served him well of late."

Severus felt his tension dissipate for just a moment and he nodded slowly, allowing an unfamiliar feeling to swell in his gut. Despite the enormity of the situation, despite the fear, the worry, the guilt, he was proud of the boy, proud of him for facing his fears, for his courage, his daring, his resilience.

Proud and utterly terrified.

"But goblins, Albus," he muttered as he walked to the window and stood looking out over Hogsmeade. "Goblins…."

/

Ginny Weasley had not returned from Easter Break.

He was strangely disturbed by this turn and braced himself for the Ministry-mandated meeting with her father. He assumed it would be with Arthur, in any event, for to date it had always been the fathers who had arrived at the castle after receiving the Ministry owl, crossing the threshold at the appointed time armed with a practiced speech and a contrived excuse for keeping his child out of school against the Ministry mandate that all _certified_ magical children _must_ attend Hogwarts. Ironically, the Disappeared, the Hogwarts Ghosts, the children who vanished from dormitories—more than fifty of them now—and faded into the walls, were not regarded as absent. They had entered the castle; they had not left its protection.

So it was that on the 22nd of April, Arthur Weasley sat in a rather uncomfortable chair across from Severus' desk. He had greeted Severus formally when he walked into the room. He did not appear to be nervous, or afraid. He looked, however, to be diminished since the last time Severus had seen him, thinner, especially evident in his usually friendly face. That face, drawn now, skin pulled more tightly around eyes and mouth, stared at him from the other side of the desk. Severus pretended to study Ginny Weasley's file.

"Where is your daughter, Mr. Weasley?" he asked at last, still leafing through the stack of parchment, feigning an indifference he did not feel in the least.

"Mr. Weasley, is it?" asked Arthur rather quietly. "Really, Severus, I prefer Arthur."

Severus straightened the parchments and looked up slowly, eyes keen, narrowed.

"And I prefer Headmaster," he returned evenly.

Arthur frowned, seemingly doubting, but then nodded fractionally.

"All right then, _Headmaster,_ " he said, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "You had a question?"

Severus steepled his hands. His mouth turned up into a parody of a smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Your daughter, Arthur. As you certainly are aware, she did not return to Hogwarts after the Easter holiday. You do realize that Ministry Order E-18014 mandates that all certified magical children in Great Britain are required to attend Hogwarts. Ginevra"—he emphasized the name—"is not at Hogwarts. As she is a minor child, responsibility falls to her parents to assure her presence here."

"She was needed elsewhere," Arthur stated simply. His eyes, Severus noted, had wandered about the office and had locked on something behind him. _Albus_ , he realized. He refused to turn his head to acknowledge the former leader of the Order of the Phoenix.

"That is no excuse, Mr. Weasley, as you well know," stated Severus, affecting a reproachful tone of voice. "You will have her here tomorrow or face the consequences."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and looked intently at Severus. "Consequences?" he asked, rather casually.

"Failure to adhere to Educational Orders of the 18000 series is punishable by imprisonment in Azkaban," stated Severus, still pretending to study his files and not looking at Arthur. He tapped his finger on a leather-bound portfolio on the desk to his right. "Without trial."

Arthur's face tightened, his mouth drawing out into a thin, hard line.

"And your son," said Severus, an sudden insuppressible urge to turn the conversation toward the other members of the Weasley family welling up and escaping his tight control. "Ronald. Do you expect he'll return to Hogwarts before the end of the year? Spattergroit does not normally affect one for what? Seven months?"

"It's a particularly severe case," answered Arthur tersely. He looked up, something unreadable passing over his face. "As contagious as it is, I'm surprised Harry hasn't come down with it as well."

Severus almost faltered.

"Are you insinuating, Mr. Weasley," said Severus, recovering quickly, "That Harry Potter is residing in your home?" He met Arthur's eye with carefully schooled features, raising one eyebrow in query.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, mimicking the man across the desk. "I haven't seen Harry since my son's wedding," he said slowly. He laid his hands on the smooth wood of the headmaster's desk. Severus stared down at them—broad hands, freckled, a gold band around the ring finger of the left hand. The left pinky twitched just as Arthur's spoke again, voice soft and low. "I suspect that one of my sons is with him. I find myself, Severus, in the same boat that you are in."

Both men raised their heads at the same moment, locking eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither saying a word. Severus' expression remained closed, eyes calculating, while Arthur's showed the open emotion of a man who had soldiered on for eight months with a gaping hole in his family.

His son was with Harry Potter. Not because he had to be, not because he was the subject of a prophecy, not because he had been targeted by a Dark Lord or mentored by Albus Dumbledore or marked with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

Ron Weasley had accompanied Harry Potter on this quest of his own volition. Because Harry was his friend. Because it was the _right_ thing to do.

Severus dropped his gaze, reached for his quill and a blank sheet of parchment and began to speak as his quill moved quickly but a bit shakily over parchment.

"Your daughter is to be back at Hogwarts tomorrow and attending classes by Friday. If she does not return by five p.m. tomorrow, I will notify the Ministry. You can expect the Aurors at your home shortly thereafter." He looked up at Arthur as he moved the parchment across the desk toward him.

Arthur looked at the parchment, read the two words written in Severus Snape's strong, spiky script. _Shell Cottage_. He reached for the parchment with a hand that trembled slightly but Severus pulled it back and rolled it up.

"Tomorrow, then," said Severus. He stood up and walked to the door of his office, opening it and standing to the side, waiting for Arthur to exit.

The other man walked toward him, face carefully neutral.

"You're a good man, Severus," he said softly as he left.

That night, the Weasley family fled the Burrow and went into hiding.

That night, Severus Snape walked around his turret walkway with its 360-degree view, then stopped, facing the far-away cottage on the sea.

It was April 22nd, 1998. Spring had come to Scotland, and as the night wind rose from the south and blew against him, he stretched out his arms and let the wind whip his robes about, almost believing that he could feel the salty spray of the ocean against his skin and hear the pounding of the waves beyond the trees.

/

On the last day of April, Severus asked Albus _again_ about his wand.

He'd approached him about it a month ago, when he realized what the Dark Lord must have been after in Dumbledore's tomb. Dumbledore, however, had merely stared at him, long and hard, and muttered something about wands not making the wizard before disappearing from his frame and staying away for several days. When he reappeared finally, Severus had immediately cornered him again.

That time, portrait Dumbledore didn't mutter and flee. Instead, he berated Severus for letting them bury his wand with him.

"I wasn't here, if you recall," snapped Severus. "I wasn't consulted on the funeral arrangements!" He sat down behind his desk. "Wizards are traditionally buried with their wands, Albus. You should have left directions if you wanted otherwise…after all, you _did_ know the end was coming."

"My wand was not the first thing on my mind at the time," stated Albus from his portrait frame. "But you are correct—I should have left instructions. But do not worry, Severus. My wand was indeed special—at the very least to me—but the wand chooses the wizard, or so they say. If Tom does indeed have my wand, he chose _it; it_ did not choose _him._ I do not suppose he will be any more powerful with my wand than he was with his own."

"Is that all, then?" Severus had asked.

"Oh, no," answered Albus. "There is much more to the story, of course. But we shall leave that for another day."

Severus decided that today was that day.

And Albus, whether by accident or design, was in a talkative mood.

On April 30th, Severus heard the tale of the Elder Wand, and of the Deathly Hallows.

He had, of course, heard the tale before, but like most wizards he believed the story to be a children's tale, a didactic lesson, a fable if you will.

"So the wand, the Elder Wand, will only work properly for someone who has won it from its master?" asked Severus. He was sitting on his desk, not at it, facing Albus, his feet up on his chair.

"To be the master of the Elder Wand, the wielder must have defeated its master. This is how I won the wand myself, for its master at the time was Grindelwald himself. I used that wand for more than fifty years, Severus."

"But who is its true master now?" asked Severus. "It was I who killed you..."

"But it was Draco Malfoy who disarmed me," said Albus' portrait self. He looked directly at Severus. "Draco Malfoy is the true master of the Elder Wand, Severus. I think it best that he never know."

But Severus was staring at Albus now, a curious look on his often tired-looking face. It started out as somewhat puzzled but morphed into a frown and from the frown into an enigmatic look and from there into what, on anyone else's face, might be called a grin.

"What? What is it Severus?" asked Dumbledore, sounding worried.

"Only that Harry disarmed Draco last month at Malfoy Manor and took his wand with him when he escaped," said Severus. "At least, I assume it was Harry. It could have been Ron, I suppose, though he was too busy taking out Bellatrix." He stood up, gleeful for the first time in many months, thinking that if his logic was indeed correct, he had reason to hope, legitimate reason to hope, for the first time in months.

"So Harry has defeated—disarmed—the true master of the Elder Wand," murmured Albus, apparently turning over the words in his own mind while Severus stood before him, waiting for his final pronouncement. He looked up, eyes shining with the most unexpected happiness, tears beginning to well up in his small and bright portrait eyes. "If it was Harry who disarmed Draco, then Harry Potter is the master of the Elder Wand. The wand will not work properly against him when used by any other."

"Even the Dark Lord himself," added Severus.

"Even Tom himself," confirmed Dumbledore. "And we can only hope that he does not realize this before he battles Harry, or Tom will seek another means to destroy him. Harry's best chance is to battle Tom while Tom is armed with the wand that he believes to be all-powerful but which in fact…is not."

"But not until he destroys all the Horcruxes," said Severus.

"'Killing' Tom before then will only result in exactly what we had before—a reprieve," stated Dumbledore. He folded his hands in front of himself on the desk and looked pained, as pained as a portrait can look. "We can't have that," said Albus. "Because this time, this time his followers _know_ that he may not truly be gone."

"I knew before," stated Severus.

"But you, my son, are not one of his followers."

Severus, who had been staring out the window once again, turned sharply and stared at the portrait. His face softened.

"Thank you, Albus," he murmured. "It is nice to hear that from someone else's lips."

/

The castle was in an uproar.

He had nearly choked on his chocolate digestive when the owl had come in and dropped the very early edition of the _Evening Prophet_ onto the table as he sat in the faculty lounge with the other staff members. Minerva had opened hers first and had reacted with a very unladylike scream. Soon, everyone was scrambling for the periodicals, grabbing them from each other in a mad fray that resembled a riot following a Muggle football game.

He had no choice but to join in. No one was listening to him anyway, so he grabbed the paper from a very startled Horace and spread it out on the table before him.

If he had been prone to fainting, he would be on the floor now. As it was, his heart jumped up into his throat, then bottomed out at the base of his stomach.

He did not have to see Harry's face to know it was he, though all he could really make out of the figures on the great winged beast was their hair.

Unmistakable hair, especially when grouped together as it was.

The red hair of Ron Weasley, the bushy brown of Hermione Granger, the messy black of Harry Potter.

Standing out even more against the sickly pale skin of a great white dragon, which was soaring over Diagon Alley.

A dragon. A full-sized living, breathing dragon. A full-sized living, breathing dragon with outspread wings, gaining altitude, three hopelessly small figures clinging to its back, several wizards on brooms far behind it in futile pursuit.

He never before had felt the warring desires to stand up and hug someone and toss up his tea at the same moment.

The dragon flew out of sight, then came back in the constantly recycling animation to zoom by the camera. Severus leaned in and assured himself that Harry had a tight grip on the creature. Merlin's braided beard, he was riding a dragon! He had broken into Gringotts and escaped. On a dragon.

Severus felt faint. Sweat was beading his forehead. He attempted to affect a bored, uninterested look as he leaned in to read the article. He failed totally. Even the Carrows had gobsmacked looks on their stupid, dull faces.

Undesirables Number 1, 2 & 3 Escape Into Skies Over Diagon Alley After Gringotts Break-In.

Well, that was uninspired. No mention of the dragon. He supposed it wasn't necessary, given the photographic evidence. Would they have the wherewithal to Apparate from the back of a moving dragon? Or would they try some foolhardy stunt like dropping from its back onto a rooftop or haystack in a Muggle farm field? Would they do it before the beast realized it had hitchhikers and turned its great head to breathe fire in their faces?

Lestrange Outraged at Use of Polyjuice

What? Now _that_ was interesting. How the hell had they managed to Polyjuice into Bellatrix Lestrange? Had Granger had the presence of mind to yank out a chunk of the bitch's hair while being tortured at Malfoy Manor? Perhaps they had found a long painted black fingernail embedded in the girl's arm? Or chunks of Bellatrix's skin beneath Hermione's fingernails? In any case, the girl was brilliant.

Break-In Unprecedented Say Goblins

Of course they'd say that. No one had ever dared to break into Gringotts before. Severus was positive that Harry and his friends were the first—ever. Pride threatened to swell within him again and he pushed it back down, fingers shaking visibly as he turned the page of the newspaper.

Potter Had Inside Help

Well, that was true, wasn't it? Was the Sword of Gryffindor now lost forever to the castle, returning to the goblins that had wrought it a thousand years ago? Was the sacrifice of the ancient artifact worth it? Had it been forged, indeed, for this very purpose?

The more he read, the more trouble he was having keeping his smile buried. There was nothing he could do about the ridiculous pride that kept welling up, pushing away the fear. Fear, at least, could be mistaken for anger and perhaps even disdain. He twisted his lip but Minerva, looking at him from across the table, was not fooled.

Imperius Used on Guards, Aurors Confirm

Well. Severus' mind was tossed back nearly two years, to the summer at Shell Cottage, and the discussion he'd had with Harry on the use of the Unforgivables. Were they _ever_ justified? Two years of growing up, an interminable season of being on the run, the desperation of running constantly up against a wall—those things changed a man.

Muggle RAF Investigating UFO

The article went on to describe a UFO in astonishingly accurate terms and suggested that the Muggles were contemplating that it was indeed possible that this winged serpent was actually Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster, taken to the air.

Severus' forearm began to itch, then to burn. He looked at it a moment, realizing that he was not being summoned but was instead feeling the Dark Lord's growing anger. He glanced at the Carrows. They were both staring unabashedly at their own left arms, looking more stupid than usual.

"Severus," hissed Alecto.

He shook his head dismissively and kept on reading.

His arm burned steadily and he realized then, with a sudden and certain truth, that he _knew._

The Dark Lord had finally figured it out. Harry was hunting Horcruxes.

Minerva managed to get his attention just after he turned another page.

Dragon, "Minnie," Will Be Missed, Say Goblins

"Headmaster!"

He looked up, unable to keep the smirk off of his face. A dragon named Minnie. He thought it very appropriate. He briefly imagined it wearing a tartan hat.

"Headmaster," she repeated, her eyes meeting his and conveying to him the pride that she felt, pride somehow larger than the gnawing worry. She looked like she wanted to cry. _He_ wanted to cry. "The children, Headmaster," she said quite loudly. "Some will have received the paper as well."

He rose instantly to his feet. Damn!

"Heads of houses to your common rooms," he directed in a voice that was pitched a little too high, words coming out a bit too quickly. He pointed at Poppy. "Go to the kitchens—direct the house-elves to serve dinner in the common rooms. The rest of you go ensure that all students return to their houses immediately and stay there."

No one moved. They all continued to stare at him expectantly.

"Go!" he ordered, hitting the table in front of him with the flat of his outstretched hand, and with a flurry of arms and legs they went. He was left sitting at an empty table with several overturned chairs beside it.

He rose and followed them out of the room into a quiet hallway. He began to run, rushing down toward the staircase. All hell broke loose when he turned the corner.

He swore he saw Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood running toward him, Neville's face broad and strong, a hint of a beard on a bruised chin. They turned down a hallway and disappeared.

He deftly avoided a water balloon thrown by a jubilant Peeves, who was chanting one of his ridiculous rhymes.

_Potty Potty Potter flying through the air_

_Next he'll come to Hogwarts into the dragon's lair_

Severus nearly stopped, forcing himself to go on even though his heart certainly skipped a beat.

_Next he'll come to Hogwarts…_

Was the last Horcrux here?

If it was, Harry would be headed this way. To find it and destroy it.

And the Dark Lord would be headed this way. To protect it and destroy Harry.

How much time did he have? He didn't know what Horcrux Harry had been after, or if he had managed to gain it, but he _felt_ that he had. He hoped against all hope that Harry knew what he was after when he got here. Because Hogwarts was a big place, full of secrets bound tightly within its walls, full of ghosts and stones and whispers older than time.

He made himself stop. Forced himself to turn around and walk back to his office, ignoring the professors rounding up students, the students only complying when the Carrows began to hurl curses. Said the password to the gargoyle—"Imagine"—and rode that stairway up, thinking it the longest minute of his life.

He was assaulted as soon as he walked into the office, all of the portraits clamoring for information. The ones whose other portraits hung in the Ministry were the most vocal, demanding information. But Severus went directly to Albus, to Albus who was standing at the front of his portrait, eyes gleaming, arms trembling, waiting, waiting for him.

"Albus!" he panted, suddenly overcome with emotion, unable to hold back any longer. "Albus—he is coming. THEY are coming… Harry, the Dark Lord. It will not be long now…" He was out of breath for some reason and he suddenly felt ill, as ill as he had felt since he raised his wand against Albus on the Astronomy Tower last June. His face paled even more and he bent over and retched, falling to his knees as his stomach emptied itself. He lay his cheek against the cold stone floor, the contact grounding him, calming him in some foreign way. Albus was dead. The castle was in chaos. His son was coming, the Dark Lord was coming, and he was alone here, in the turret of a castle on an island of green that was not big enough for all of them. That would only, in the end, allow one king.

In other days, in earlier times, when Albus was not tied to a bit of canvas, the headmaster's wizened old arms would have come down to rest on his shoulders, rub the base of his neck. Perhaps when his guilt had driven him to drink, or perhaps when he had returned from a particularly gruesome gathering of the Dark Lord's followers. When he felt it was too much, when he simply could not go on. The touches from Albus were infrequent, but they were real. The pressure of those old hands upon his robes, rubbing away a particularly bad memory, smoothing the surface of a tumultuous night.

He imagined that touch now as he pushed himself back up to his hands and knees, then sat down heavily against the wall beneath the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, struggling to find the calm center he had outwardly maintained throughout this past year, since that terrible night on the Tower, since he had left Harry on the ground, disarmed, just inside the gates, calling to him, begging him. _Don't leave!_

"Severus," the voice of the greatest wizard of all time, the only wizard Voldemort had truly feared, fell down on him, caressing him with a touch no other could ever evoke. "Severus my boy—it is time."


	10. May 1998

May, 1998

The caterwauling alarms had gone off in Hogsmeade.

Loud enough to be heard at the castle, the alarms were meant to keep everyone inside after curfew and alert the Death Eaters on guard of any intruders. Because, evidently, everyone thought that Harry Potter would eventually try to get back to Hogwarts, and assumed that he'd use Hogsmeade as a point of entry.

Harry would not have known about the alarms.

Yet, Severus thought he would know if Harry were apprehended. There would be a call of some sort, a convening of Death Eaters in Hogsmeade or a decision to move Harry—most likely to Hogwarts, though possibly to Malfoy Manor. Severus thought Hogwarts would be more likely, given the boy's previous escape from the Manor and the Dark Lord's fascination and preoccupation with the school.

Severus might not have heard the alarms at all if he hadn't been outside, walking the headmaster's walk, pacing back and forth instead of in full circuits, eyes watching in turn the castle gates, the lake, the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid's hut. Where would Harry come? The tunnels were closed now, and watched on their external termini for anyone attempting to use them. He would have to breach the wards at some point, at some time. Severus suspected that he would fly in on his broom, covered by his Invisibility Cloak, as he had on that night last June, on the night that Albus died.

It was not Harry's modus operandi to bring in an army. A mob could potentially break through the gates, of course, but Harry would slip in instead, quietly, alone or nearly alone. Nearly alone. His friends would not leave him, not now. Not after flying out of Diagon Alley clinging together on the back of a dragon. Severus knew they'd find a way to slip in without being caught. The boy who escaped from the Dark Lord's clutches in Godric's Hollow, from Bellatrix herself at Malfoy Manor and on the back of a dragon from Gringotts would not be foiled by a mere heavily warded one-thousand-year-old impenetrable castle.

He looked out now over Hogsmeade, but there was no sound from the coldly silent town. No lights, no screaming or shouting, not a single noise or movement. He stood there for a long time more and finally, more than an hour after the alarms had sounded, gave it up and went inside and down to his office.

Where Kreacher was waiting for him. Standing in front of his desk, wringing his hands, looking very much like he wanted to pace back and forth, right there, on the well-worn tiles that Severus so often paced himself.

"Headmaster Snape, Professor, sir." Kreacher bowed so low that the long wispy hair on the tops of his ears brushed the floor.

Severus stopped just inside the door from his private quarters and stared at the elf. He could not interpret the look on the small creature's face. Was he excited? Upset? Angry? He looked, more than anything else, like he had eaten something unpleasant and was about to bring it back up.

"Kreacher," Severus acknowledged. The elf straightened. "What is it?"

"The children in the room, sir," explained Kreacher. "They are moving. They have left the room, with Master Harry Potter."

Severus froze.

"Harry is here? Already? Inside Hogwarts?"

Kreacher bowed again.

"Yes, Headmaster. Master Harry Potter has come with his friends. Master Harry Potter is asking for help to find something that is hidden." The elf was still wringing his hands. "You told me, Headmaster Snape, sir, to tell you if anything changed with the special room and the children who are staying there."

"Thank you, Kreacher," said Severus as he almost ran for the door. "Go now—go to the kitchens and stay with the other elves there."

"Severus—a moment!" Albus' voice from the portrait was louder than he had heard it all year. He did not want to stop; he did not want to take another moment to speak with the former headmaster, even though he had no idea why he was heading out into the castle after Harry. What would he do when he found the boy? _If_ he found him.

"Albus…be quick." He stopped with his hand on the door to the spiral stairway and turned to face the portrait.

"Slow down, Severus. Think." Albus was standing at the front of his frame, eerily out of proportion in that position. "If Harry is indeed here, he is close…he is looking for the final item we could not identify. He will need time—time to locate it. You will need to do something—whatever you can—to buy him more time. Chasing him down in the castle will only deter him."

"I cannot stay in this room, Albus!" protested Severus, sweeping his eyes over the other headmasters in their frames. Not a one, not a single one of the headmasters, most of whom couldn't be arsed to open their eyes on the sunniest of days, was sleeping now. "I am the headmaster of Hogwarts. I have a duty—a responsibility!" And at this moment, he believed that statement with all of his heart and soul.

"You do indeed, Severus," answered Albus calmly. "But I would argue that your duty to Harry comes _before_ your duty to Hogwarts. Give him ten minutes—fifteen. Give him time to formulate a plan, Severus."

"Give him time to formulate a plan?" Severus repeated Albus' phrase, staring at the portrait. "Isn't it a bit late for him to be figuring it all out?"

"It is Harry, Severus," said Albus soothingly. "He has just escaped from Gringotts on the back of a dragon. He is running on pure adrenaline now."

"But…"

Severus never finished his statement of protest. Pain erupted in his left forearm, the pain of an angry Dark Lord, the call of his unwelcome master, a call for him alone.

"No, I must go now. Albus—Albus…if you see him…if he comes here…tell him what he must do." He gave Dumbledore a look—such a look—and the old headmaster bowed his head. "He knows already, Albus. I have been preparing him over the months. But he should still be told, one to one."

And with that, he hurried out of the office, left arm pressed tightly across his ribs, left hand clutching his robes, boots, new and tight in August, now well-worn and comfortable, sliding noiselessly against the stones of the floor, black robes billowing out behind him, dancing in the wind of his worries.

/

The halls were not quiet.

The children were not all in their common rooms, no matter the order that had gone out to them from their heads.

He saw Peeves first, bobbing along upside down near the ceiling, futilely taunting the suits of armor and rallying them to take up arms in defense of the castle. But Peeves disappeared before Severus could get even a single word out. The pain in Severus' arm was consistent, biting and _personal_. The Dark Lord was coming and he was sure, utterly convinced, that someone had called him to the castle with the news that Harry Potter was here. Someone like the Carrows.

The noise in the corridors was fading. He heard the echo of running feet ahead of him but could see nothing by the light of the torches that magically illuminated when someone passed by. He was surprised—nearly out of his skin—to turn a corner and almost run into Minerva.

She was alone in the corridor. Yet he had heard voices. He looked around sharply and saw nothing, heard no one.

"Minerva? Where is Harry?" His voice, in its desperation, sounded hoarse and shaky.

She gave it away with a glance to her side, into an alcove where three great suits of armor stood watch on a raised plinth, two wielding long swords and the third heaving a great mace over its head. They were almost comical in their over-exaggeration.

"Severus…" she warned. He took two steps toward her, his painful arm and searing Dark Mark suddenly forgotten. The arm could have burst into flame, the flesh could have melted away exposing bone and nerves, and still he could not have prevented himself from moving forward.

"Severus!" Her voice had a warning in it and he noticed the wand in her hand, slightly raised. She was not threatening him but something was off. She was trying to tell him something. What…?

He felt the rising power, the change in the very molecules of air around him, and whirled, leaving Minerva behind him.

"Longbottom! What are you…?" Minerva's wand was wielded in earnest now, but she didn't seem to know quite where to point it.

Severus blocked the Stunner and it ricocheted off the stone walls behind Longbottom. The boy was facing him, a deadly serious look on his face, and Severus shot a non-verbal Disarming Spell at him which Longbottom barely dodged. He was off his game, in pain, distracted.

A spell from Minerva passed within inches of his hip. He was standing still at the time—there was no way in hell she could have missed him if she had wanted to hit him.

He split his attention, worried now only about Longbottom. The youth dove under his Stunner then shot a Cutting Hex at Severus, which Severus caught and scattered with a Splitting Spell. Severus scored, hitting the boy with a quick Stunner, watching him topple and lie on his stomach on the stones, then whirled around to check on Minerva and found himself facing all four heads of house, the other three running up behind Minerva even as he turned. _What the hell? Where had they come from? Where the hell was Harry?_

He couldn't face them all, he couldn't—wouldn't—fight them all. Had he been in his right mind, without the distraction of Harry hidden only feet away, he could have easily taken on all four of them. Minerva and Filius were the only two competent duelers, though using "competent" to describe their combined skills was an extreme understatement and, indeed, a disservice to them.

He managed to throw out several powerful yet non-lethal spells as he ran backwards toward the huge paned window at the end of the corridor. He could see his opponents reflected in the torch-lit glass and, just as he jumped, covering his face instinctively as he faced the inevitable collision with the solid surface, throwing up a personal Shield Spell to protect himself from the worst damage, he thought he could see something else—a flicker of movement behind Minerva, a tangled head of black hair beside a halo of blond, but the vision was gone as his shoulder impacted the surface of the window and he crashed through, body already lifted in flight. Flying away, returning to the Dark Lord, for the last time.

/

He is made to wait in the Forbidden Forest for a long time. It seems like hours. It is definitely more than one.

The Dark Lord was there waiting when he arrived, birdlike, alighting from the skies above Hogwarts like a graceful hawk settling on the high branch of a tall pine. There to greet him with incoherent ravings, and Severus knows what is eating him, what is driving him out of mere distraction into insanity. The destruction of his artifacts, of his Horcruxes, his splintered soul: yet the Dark Lord does not, cannot, mention the word to anyone, not even to Severus Snape.

He questions Severus, up, down and all around, on what is happening at the castle, who is loyal, who is not, students and faculty alike. He insists that Harry Potter will come to him. He thanks Severus for his service, tells him he has been true to him, loyal, that he has played his role well and will be rewarded. He tells him to wait; he will be called, he will be needed.

The Dark Lord disappears and leaves him there, with the others, beginning the long night of waiting.

Lucius is there, and Narcissa, and Bellatrix, and as the minutes pass into hours, others as well.

Narcissa paces when Lucius is called away. Bellatrix berates her, calls her weak. Severus sits on the ground with his back against a tree. He hears every magically enhanced word the Dark Lord has spoken, demanding that Harry be turned over to him by his friends. He hears the screams, the rending of stones, the explosions. He is not too deep in the woods—no more than on the outskirts before the forest becomes thick with roots and trees and paths wide enough for sure-footed centaurs only.

It is a long wait, and a quiet one, despite the noise of battle and the worried susurrations of Death Eaters trying to fool even themselves into believing this will turn out well. No one approaches him—even Bellatrix now gives him a wide berth. He is the chosen one of the Dark Lord's chosen and while he, at times, is made to suffer as all of them are, he is generally above reproach. He does his job. He does not complain. He does not make alliances with his peers. He serves, and he serves one master only.

But they are wrong in their assumptions of who that master is.

It is nearly over. This life he has lived these past years, years equivalent to the life of Harry James Potter. Harry, who is nearly 18 years old. Who has been—who had been—an orphan for more than sixteen. Who is no longer an orphan, not where it matters, but whose existence hangs on a thread.

Will Harry understand, at the end, when the snake is dead too, that there is one more Horcrux to destroy? They have discussed this but not since last year, not since their correspondence ended, wrapped up and buried in the tangled limbs of Albus Dumbledore at the foot of the Astronomy Tower.

Will Harry give himself over to the Dark Lord and let the Dark Lord raise his wand at him?

And will he survive, as Dumbledore thinks he will? As Dumbledore _finally_ revealed to him, admitted to him, only weeks ago?

For Harry Potter's blood runs within Lord Voldemort's veins. It was taken—the blood of an enemy—taken by Peter Pettigrew in the ritual that restored Voldemort to an almost-human form. Used in the potion to restore the shapeless form to the body the monster now inhabits. The Dark Lord's life hanging on that same thread as Harry's—each tethering the other to the earth as long as even one Horcrux exists.

Severus leans his head back against the tree and closes his eyes.

Before him, the Death Eaters in the clearing pace. Most are at the castle by now, fighting or waiting to fight, but a few remain here, at the Dark Lord's orders, waiting for their chance to prove their merit, show their worth, answer his call and perform his bidding.

Rumbling in the forest. The centaurs are moving.

The bark of the tree is rough against his head. It is May—May 2nd, now—but the night air is still chilly. Severus pulls his cloak around himself more tightly, pulls his knees more closely up against his chest. He used to sit like this when he was younger. When he was a boy at Hogwarts, sitting under the tree by the lake reading—reading—the other children sometimes said his nose reached the proportions it did from being closed inside a book all the time. And he sat like this when he was a child as well, with his best friend, Lily, his only friend, Lily, under the trees discovering magic and dreaming of the future. And more than once he sat like this as an adult, most memorably on the beach at Shell Cottage, hands around his knees as Harry waded in the shallows or practiced Occlumency in his watery cocoon.

He thinks he should be stoic now as he approaches what may be his end. After all, he has done the crime and is paying the dues. It is just…it is just…

That he'd like to see Harry again. Tell him good-bye. Congratulate him on his extraordinary skill and luck. Honor his choice of loyal friends. Tell him about Neville Longbottom and the soldier ghosts in the Room of Requirement. Help him decide what to do with his life once the Dark Lord is dead. Work with him on all that he missed academically this year so that he can pass his NEWTs and get on with his life.

He feels a melancholy tug at his heart.

He has had almost no time to be a real father to Harry.

If he lives, if they both live—and although Severus knows there is little chance of that now, in the shadow of the forest, in the dimness of his heart, in the echo of the battle, he hopes—he will take Harry away from here, away from Hogwarts, to heal. He is not a mind-healer but he knows that not all scars are visible, and when he lifts his head and sees the flashing lights through the trees and hears the echoing rumbles of crashing stones, he knows that people are dying in that castle and there will not be a single death of those who fight with him and for him that Harry will not regret, that he will not take personally and live to atone.

Severus thinks he should be feel more sadness that the castle is crumbling.

If he lives, he will get rid of Spinner's End. He will pack up the few things he cares about and sell the rest. He will sell the house, as well, though he would rather burn it to the ground, leaving a scar on the earth where it once stood so he would never be tempted to pay it a visit again.

If he lives, there will be a new life waiting for him. Here in Great Britain as a free wizard, or perhaps overseas if his story is not believed, if he is pursued and imprisoned for what he was. A spy. A traitor. A murderer. The man who killed Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of his time, the only man Lord Voldemort ever feared.

_Until he learned to fear Harry Potter._

Lucius is there now, shaking him by the shoulder, telling him to go to their master.

Their master, who is waiting in the Shrieking Shack.

And Severus goes, because there is no other choice.

/

He is hallucinating.

He should be dead. The Dark Lord has so decreed it. Has killed him with the bite of the snake, has ripped his neck out.

Has left him in a pool of blood on the floor of the filthy shack, his wand on the floor beside him, his robes spread out around him, his body twisted.

The Dark Lord does not know that the wand will not work for him even now, for Severus was never its true master.

What the Dark Lord doesn't know will hurt him. Severus is convinced of that, at least.

But now, when he should be slipping off into his final sleep, there are hands on him.

Vaguely, in the dim light of the old building, he sees shapes. He feels hands on his neck, holding closed the wound, feels the burn of the Dittany.

There is blood in his ears but he hears Harry's voice.

Feels the splash of tears on his face as if they are his own and perhaps they are. Tears mingle with tears mingle with sweat and all of it salty, running down his face as the voices fade into a hollow, echoing sound. And he is underwater, voices indistinct and muted.

He forces his eyes open and somehow, someway, reaches shaky, trembling hands—muscles already poisoned by venom—to grasp Harry...he hopes it is Harry…it feels like Harry…by the shirt and pulls him down and looks at him, looks at him through the boy’s smeared, smudged, chipped glasses, magnifying green eyes that are no longer Lily's eyes in a face that is no longer James' face.

_Look at me_.

And he pushes out the memories that Albus says the boy must have.

There is no strength left in him. His vision darkens at the edges until all that is left, all that he sees, are two pinpoints of green light, two dark pupils, two blinks, two glimmers, two tears.

/

Awareness came over him slowly, feeling in his fingertips, an ache in his neck that was more than a crick. One of his cheeks felt warm, as if the sunlight was striking it. He imagined he felt the ocean breeze and heard the pounding of the waves, but when he concentrated on listening, he heard the sounds of breathing, and soft feet padding across the floor. The smells were medicinal yet not unpleasant. He willed his brain to open his eyes, wondering if the connections still worked.

Poppy was standing at the foot of the bed, leaning against the iron footboard. She looked as though she hadn't slept in days, but she was smiling. He moved his head to see who was sitting beside him.

"Careful, Headmaster," said Minerva from her chair at his side. "Take it slowly. You've been a bit under the weather the last few days."

"Voldemort?" he rasped out, in barely more than a whisper.

"Dead," said Minerva. "Right in the middle of the Great Hall."

"Good," he said, very softly. The two words should not have exhausted him so much. He closed his eyes, but not before noticing a small clock on his bedside table. The hand pointed to "Great Hall."

"You've received an Order of Merlin, First Class," persisted Minerva. "They've decided not to have special ceremonies, what with the state things are in. Kingsley delivered it yesterday. Harry accepted it for you. Harry insisted on a full pardon as well, which Kingsley granted on the spot. That boy can be persistent."

Snape opened his eyes and stared at her.

Minerva laughed. "Kingsley is the new Minister of Magic, Severus. And Harry went down, at our insistence, to get some lunch a little while ago. He'll be back before you know it—he's hardly left your side this past week."

There were things he wanted to know, information he should have before Harry arrived.

"How many…dead?" he asked.

"All told…far too many," sighed Minerva. "Almost a hundred who fought on our side, and that's without the centaurs and house-elves. It was not pretty, Severus. But it is over—truly, irrevocably and completely over."

"Harry's friends?" he asked, his eyes, more focused now, sliding from bed to bed in the infirmary.

"Fred Weasley," said Minerva. "Both Remus and Nymphadora. He's taken those very hard. They made him godfather to the baby, and Andromeda brought him here yesterday, to the funerals, you see…"

Her voice fell off.

"They buried the dead…here?" He would have liked to have been buried at Hogwarts, by the lake, or at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"Many of them, yes," answered Poppy, still standing at the foot of his bed. "And fortunately you were not among them, Headmaster. Ahh, there he is."

Minerva turned toward the doors of the hospital wing and waved.

The Harry Potter who approached was not the boy who had watched him kill Dumbledore a year before.

Minerva slid out of her chair and went to stand by Poppy at the foot of the bed. Harry kept his eyes on Snape's as he neared. His hair was long, approaching a proper Wizarding length. The shadow on his face was no longer that of a boy just learning his first Shaving Charm. His arms and hands showed signs of recent burns, poorly healed. The boy sat on Minerva's chair, staring at Snape, not speaking. He reached out a hand toward Snape's face, brushing loose hair off his face.

"How…how did you do it? In the end?" said Snape.

"Expelliarmus," said Harry. "With the Elder Wand. Long story—not important now." Snape watched tears leak out the corner of Harry's eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.

"Bill and Fleur have bought a cottage near the Burrow," Harry said. "So we're going back to Shell Cottage—as soon as Poppy says you can leave."

When had he started calling the teachers by their first names? When had he started making decisions for him? When had he grown up? Become a man?

"You've forgotten the Shaving Charm?" he asked, trying to lift a heavy arm off the bed, pointing toward Harry's face.

"Funny you should say that," said Harry, rubbing a hand against his extremely stubbly chin. "Because I've been using it on you every day for the last week. As for me, I'm growing a beard."

"For the summer," said Snape, his voice now no more than a whisper. "You'll have to shave it when you come back in August for the new school year."

Harry stared at Snape. "Back?"

"Last time I looked, someone hadn't showed up for his last year of school," said Snape. Harry had to lean in to hear him.

"I'll make you a deal," said Harry softly as Snape closed his eyes, exhausted. "I'll come back…if you will."

/

Poppy kept him in the infirmary another ten days.

Harry joined him there, completely, utterly, totally exhausted, the day after he woke up.

"It's traumatic exhaustion," explained Poppy. "He's been running on pure adrenaline." Hermione Granger had found him on the Astronomy Tower, sitting against a splintered gargoyle, knees pulled up to his chest, looking out over the war-bruised grounds of the castle, tears trickling down his still-dirty face, unresponsive, nodding dumbly when she took his hand and helped him to stand. He could not sleep. Indeed, did not want to sleep.

Severus sat on the edge of Harry's bed once Poppy got him settled on it. She had had to help him move, five faltering steps that had nearly exhausted him. He reached out a hand that was shaky, but not as unsteady as it had been, and brushed long hair out of Harry's eyes.

Poppy appeared behind him with a potion, suggested by Severus himself, to force Harry's body into a long sleep.

"Body first," he had said. "It can be healed before the mind. They both need time." He looked over at Poppy and could not help the small wistful smile. "And fortunately, that's what we have the most of right now."

He looked back at the boy on the bed. Harry's eyes were open still, looking up at him.

"Drink this, Harry," he said softly. "I'll be here when you wake."

And in a show of trust that was a balm to Severus soul—for he did not deserve that trust, not after how he had left Harry nearly a year ago—Harry drank the Sleeping Draught and then settled on his side, facing Severus. He scooted closer to him as the quick-acting potion took effect, curling his body around Severus', and in the end it was easier for Severus to lie there on the bed with him, and let him sleep.

Harry slept for 48 hours, woke up, ate a meal, and slept for twelve more.

/

"Severus?"

Severus heard the voice below him and called down the stairway.

"Up here, Harry."

He heard the soft padding of shoes in the stone stairway a moment later and paused in his circuit until Harry was all the way up.

"Severus…?" Harry stepped onto the headmaster's turret walk. "Wow."

"One of the few perks I've found in this position as headmaster," said Severus evenly as he stood facing outward. It was almost sunset, three weeks after the death of Voldemort, three weeks after Severus nearly died and Harry died and lived again. Poppy had released him to his quarters only days ago. He was weak still, and had come up here on a lark, to look out once more before he left, to see his island kingdom with new eyes.

"I'm all packed." Harry's voice was low. He walked over and stood next to Severus and mirrored his stance, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the expanse of rock and grass and trees and water, past the Hogwarts gates to the village of Hogsmeade and beyond.

"As am I," said Severus. "Have you said your goodbyes?"

Harry shrugged and smiled. "Farewells, anyway," he answered. "Since I'll be back in three months. Are you ready?"

Severus turned toward the setting sun and nodded, resting a trembling hand on the stone rail before him. He watched the sun sink down, finally disappearing beyond the trees in an orange and pink glow, but when he turned to Harry he found the boy staring instead at his hand, the hand that rested on the stones, the trembling hand, long-fingered, once dexterous, no longer so.

"It's over," said Harry. He looked up at Severus' face then. "It's really over and I have no idea what comes next."

"Tomorrow comes next," said Severus.

"But not for everyone," said Harry wistfully, looking over the wall again and scanning the castle grounds. "Not for Fred. Not for Remus and Tonks."

"No, not for them," confirmed Severus. He looked thoughtfully at Harry. "You may regret that they don't have any tomorrows, Harry, but never, _ever_ regret that you do."

Harry nodded and blinked his eyes, biting his bottom lip as he always did when he was pensive, or holding back emotion. He turned slightly to look out over the lake.

"You don't, do you, Dad?" He'd been trying that name out more, though he didn't use it as frequently as he could have and always, always when they were alone.

"Regret my tomorrows?"

Harry nodded.

Did he?

Severus looked at his shaking hand, considered his damaged voice, his scarred neck. He remembered the meeting he had had with Molly Weasley on the second day when Harry lay sleeping. She had come well after dark, slipping quietly into the still crowded infirmary and pulling a chair over between his bed and Harry's, closer to Harry's, facing the sleeping boy. She had straightened his covers, smoothed his hair, run a hand down his cheek, tucked him in. Sighed deeply as she stared at Harry, reached out her own hand to lay on top of his.

Severus had stared at her with a feeling he could not name, seeing himself in this formidable mother of seven, watching her perform the same ritual, give out the same sigh, reach out and touch the same hand, that he himself had not an hour before, just before Poppy made him give it in for the night.

"Molly?" he had said, testing the waters, hoping he would still be welcome to use that name.

She had turned quickly toward him, not bothering to hide the tears that were spilling out of her eyes.

"He'll be alright, Molly. When he's strong again—well rested, anyway—we're leaving here and going to the cottage. You're welcome to come by whenever you'd like to see him—all of you, of course."

"I'm so happy he has you," she had said through her tears. "I'm not strong enough now." She had smiled a brave smile. "I will be though. With time."

And it had hit him then, with the force of a Killing Curse, that he had not lost anyone whom he had loved during this battle. Not since Albus, anyway, and that death, though as final as any death, had been a long time coming, planned and carried out with the other man's full participation and intent. 

The Weasleys were grieving. Harry was grieving. The teachers who had taught the dead students would be grieving. The castle itself would grieve its own losses and would heal only through time and great effort. 

As would they all. Time and effort, but mostly, he knew, time.

He did a very un-Snapelike thing then. He got up—with great effort—and sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a belted dressing gown, warm house shoes on his feet. He patted the bed next to him and looked at Molly. She gave him a grateful look as she moved to sit beside him and he wrapped an arm around her, this surrogate mother for his son for all of these past years, and she leaned into him and was, for a while anyway, during this one dark and quiet night of many to come, content to watch Harry Potter sleep.

"You'll tell him I was here, will you? Tomorrow when he wakes?"

"I will," he had answered. "Tomorrow." 

He looked at Harry now.

"I'll never regret my tomorrows," he said. _Never again, anyway,_ he added mentally, remembering the years after Lily's death when every day had been full of bitter regret.

"Come on, Harry," he said, dropping an arm over Harry's shoulder in a gesture that was becoming more comfortable. "Minerva and Poppy are probably pulling their hair out wondering where we've gotten to."

Harry let out an exaggerated sigh. "They're not going to stop, are they?" he asked as they walked together, down the stone stairway, taking each step one by one, making slow progress, baby steps. The metaphor, Severus knew, for the months ahead.

"I'm afraid not. You'd better get used to thinking of them as your family."

"As _our_ family," corrected Harry, looking significantly at Severus.

Severus nodded. One day, he knew, he would be accustomed to that look in Harry's eye.

A few minutes later they stood in front of the Floo in his office. Poppy hugged Harry goodbye, then Minerva had her turn. Harry vanished and he was next. He let Poppy hug him first, the gesture still awkward from her, though no less heartfelt. Minerva next, and her hug was fierce and possessive.

"You let him take care of you, Severus," she said as she hugged him. Then, when she released him, still holding onto his arms, she glanced at Albus' portrait and spoke again, her brogue strong, her voice heavy with emotion.

"You are the greatest headmaster this school has ever had, Severus Snape."

And when he bent to kiss her cheek, the portraits around them began to clap and he resolutely did not look at them, especially did not look at Albus, as he dropped the powder in the Floo and spun away.

When he stepped out of the fireplace at Shell Cottage, he smelled the salt air and he heard the pound of the surf but he did not see Harry.

He paused and listened and smiled, a genuine smile that began in his heart and reached his eyes, when he heard the faint groan of the hammock swinging on the porch beyond the kitchen. He walked to the porch slowly, already on his feet longer than he was able to comfortably tolerate, and leaned against the window, looking out to the ocean, barely visible in the light of a quarter moon.

The hammock squeaked behind him as Harry got out and stood beside him, forehead against the cool glass.

A tear, unbidden, slipped down his face. He glanced at Harry and saw that he, too, was crying.

"I'm never leaving here," said Harry after a long moment.

Severus opened his mouth to say _Yes, you are,_ but somehow something else came out of his mouth.

"Neither am I," he said.

And Harry understood.

_-Fin-_

__________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you for seeing this to the end! “One Man's Island” ends here, but is continued in the story of the summer at Shell Cottage. This story, while focusing on Harry and Severus, includes all the people and relationships important to Harry, so look for Ron and Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna, the Weasleys and, of course, Harry's new godson, Teddy.


End file.
